


Dance With Me

by MostGeckcellent



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Brief slut-shaming, Class Differences, Combeferre Cosette and Enjolras are siblings, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Other Minor Characters - Freeform, No Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostGeckcellent/pseuds/MostGeckcellent
Summary: Combeferre is recently the head of his family, and his younger twin siblings, Enjolras and Cosette, are due to begin their first London Season. When Cosette meets the grandson of a baron, how will that impact his own secret relationship with Courfeyrac, an actor? How will Enjolras manage the attentions of a Duke, newly arrived in London?
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 85





	1. Working Title: Enjolras gets told to smile more

**Author's Note:**

> I have done some research for this one (shocking, I know). Bonus points to anyone who can spot the things I bothered to google or learned from historical youtubers.

Combeferre is 25 years old when his father dies, leaving him the head of the family Fauchelevant. In Combeferre’s care, his mother, and his younger twin siblings, Enjolras and Cosette. The twins are 19, and devastated. Combeferre has a responsibility to be strong for them, so he is. They spend that year’s season in mourning black, and keep to themselves. Enjolras becomes withdrawn; Cosette is just sad. The twins lean on each other, and on their elder brother. Combeferre leans on his lover, a rising actor named Courfeyrac. No one knows; no one can know. He knows he has the responsibilities of the first son on his shoulders, and he doesn’t know what that means, but Courfeyrac truly means the world to him, and they only become closer as Combeferre seeks refuge in him. 

Time doesn’t take away grief, but it does soften its jagged edges. Days turn to weeks, then months, and before any of the little Fauchelevant family knows it, a full year has passed. 

“The twins are already twenty years old!” Mme. Fauchelevant frets. “It is, of course, only proper to take a mourning period, but you cannot delay their coming out another season, Combeferre.” 

Combeferre sighs. He knows she’s right, of course, though he won’t push either into anything if they don’t feel ready. Cosette has already hinted, though, that she would like to re-enter society, and though Enjolras has little interest in a court presentation, Combeferre knows that he won’t hold Cosette back. Enjolras is also eager to take his place in society, or rather, to upend the whole system, if he has his way, and even Enjolras knows he must participate to some extent in order to do so. It’s a difficult decision - presenting them means that soon, one or both will leave this house, and he knows he will be dreadfully lonely without them. 

“You are right, of course,” he agrees despite his misgivings. “This season they will come out, if they agree that they wish to do so.” 

Cosette agrees instantly, eagerly. She is talking about ribbons and dresses and dancing, and even Enjolras is eager, in his way, discussing the opportunities to speak with members of the House of Lords, to find those who share his opinions in the adult sphere. 

Combeferre takes them both shopping; Cosette selects a lovely blue fabric, and even Enjolras chooses something bright and red for a new jacket. They are off to the tailor, and the modiste, and all the rest, for fittings and patterns and such. 

“And what about you, Combeferre?” Cosette asks, a sly smile on her lips. “Will this be your season, do you think, to find love?”

“I doubt it very much.” Combeferre had never been much for romance, and the longer he remained a bachelor, the less likely it was for him to make a match of his own. This was, of course, to the eternal chagrin of their mother, who had been pressing him for heirs since Combeferre’s own first season, six years earlier. And now, of course, he has Courfeyrac, a match his mother would surely never approve of, one that society would consider an incredible scandal. No, Combeferre doubts he will end up married as the Mme. Fauchelevant wishes by the end of this season. 

“Is love all that is on your mind?” Enjolras asks, dodging the sharp pins of the tailor whose shop all three are in. “There are more important things.” 

“More important than love? If your politics and opinions aren’t rooted in love, at the very least love of the people, what good are they?” Cosette asks, sharper than any tailor’s needles could be. 

“You know very well what I mean,” Enjolras huffs. “Marriage, courting, it’s all a distraction. It’s frivolity.” 

“With that attitude, you’ll find yourself alone with nothing but your work, and wondering why you’re so unfulfilled, brother dearest,” Cosette sniffs. “Besides - we all know  _ I _ plan to marry for love, but perhaps you’ll secure some political alliance more to your liking.” 

“I don’t need to marry to be heard and respected,” Enjolras retorts. 

“Children,” Combeferre tries to calm them both. He loves them both dearly, but they do test him sometimes. “That’s enough. Save it for those more deserving of your ire.” 

Enjolras and Cosette both make a face at him, and they look so alike in that moment that it’s unnerving. Combeferre shakes his head. 

  
  
  


Combeferre watches Courfeyrac dress. “You’ll make me late,” Courfeyrac scolds playfully, “I’m needed onstage in only a few minutes, and my hair is still a mess.” 

“You look flawless, my dear, and you know it,” Combeferre replies fondly. 

Courfeyrac eyes Combeferre, whose shirt is still undone, and whose hair is thoroughly mussed. “I cannot say the same for you - you are always flawless in my eyes, of course, but not nearly proper enough for your precious society acquaintances.”

“Fuck them,” Combeferre says, surprising a laugh out of Courfeyrac with his uncharacteristic crassness. “As long as I am flawless in  _ your _ eyes, I don’t care a bit what they think.” 

Untrue, of course, and both of them know it. Combeferre steps near anyway, and cradles Courfeyrac’s jaw in his hand, before stealing another kiss. They wouldn’t be hiding if Combeferre didn’t care at all what people think. He feels guilty for that, but he has his siblings to consider, too. His mother. 

“You sir, are a dangerous distraction. I am needed backstage,” Courfeyrac laughs, and Combeferre reluctantly lets him go. He does up his own shirt while Courfeyrac fixes his hair and applies the slightest bit of rouge for the stage, and follows Courfeyrac into the hallway. He looks around one last time, and no one is there, so he allows himself one last kiss. 

“Go, then,” Combeferre murmurs. There’s a wistful look in his eyes, one that is mirrored in Courfeyrac’s. Neither of them like the secrecy, and Combeferre knows Courfeyrac is growing impatient. 

Courfeyrac’s performance is, of course, flawless. He performs with aplomb, and receives uproarious applause. Combeferre watches him with pride, and wishes he could announce it to everyone there - this is my lover, and we are in love, and I wish I could marry him someday. He slips out early, instead, to show Courfeyrac just how much he appreciated the performance in his dressing room again. The weight of his responsibilities weigh heavily on him as he goes. 

  
  
  


All too soon, the season begins. Court dress is bizarre, of course, combining the popular empire waistline with the outdated requirement for hoop skirts, for those who choose to wear skirts. Somehow, Cosette manages to pull it off; she is radiant, hair in elaborate curls. Enjolras is scowling, as usual, but he looks striking as well, of course, both twins in white and gold. They cut an intimidating picture, arm in arm, and Combeferre is struck by how they have both grown so much in the past year. 

The carriage takes them to the palace, where the queen is receiving the young gentles to be starting their first seasons this year. The footman helps each of them out of the carriage, and they walk into the palace. 

“It’s beautiful,” Cosette murmurs with wide eyes. 

“It’s wasteful,” Enjolras frowns, critical. 

“Curb your tongues, both of you,” Mme Fauchelevant says, and ushers them onwards. 

One by one, the families waiting walk up the aisle, the speaker announcing them. 

“Presenting Mr. Enjolras and Ms. Cosette Fauchelevant, Mr. Combeferre Fauchelevant and Mme Beatrice Fauchelevant,” he says, and the family steps up, Cosette and Enjolras arm in arm in front, Combeferre and their mother behind. Cosette is radiant, smiling and bowing gracefully. Enjolras is severe, no less beautiful. His bow is significantly shallower. 

The queen looks at Cosette from her throne, and does and says nothing, until she slowly smiles. “You are sure to be this year’s diamond,” she says to Cosette. 

“Your majesty.” Cosette forces herself not to look up. “Thank you.” 

The queen turns to Enjolras, who is scowling even now. “You ought to smile more,” she tells him, and whispers cross the room in an instant. 

“Thank you, your majesty,” Mme Fauchelevant says, and the family exits gracefully. 

Combeferre thinks this is bound to be an interesting season; Cosette has gained attention from the queen herself, has been declared to be a diamond of the season. Enjolras, too, has drawn attention to himself, though his sort is less likely to result in a plethora of suitors. Looking at the thunderous expression on Enjolras’ face, Combeferre suspects that’s for the best. 


	2. Working title: I'm coming out and doing just fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette discovers she is beautiful (she knew already, of course, but it never hurts to be reminded.   
> Also, enter Baron-to-be Marius Pontmercy, grandson of Baron Gillenormand Pontmercy. And Cosette is almost as dazzled as he.

There will be a ball, tonight, and the Fauchelevants are invited. It will be their first public function since their court presentation, and everyone is bustling to get ready. 

“Enjolras, tie my stays,” she requests, though it isn’t really a request. 

Enjolras dutifully laces them. Cosette can do it herself, of course, but he is happy enough to help. Over her chemise, stays, and drawers, she adds petticoats, and then her favourite blue dress. A white ribbon in her hair, and pearls around her neck, and she thinks her outfit is complete. She stands before the mirror, and declares, “Do you know, I really am quite beautiful.” 

It’s not vanity, just fact. Cosette  _ is  _ beautiful, and she knows beauty is not the only thing that matters, but in the world they live in, beauty isn’t nothing, either. 

“You are,” Combeferre answers. He is already dressed and ready, his cravat straight, his glasses perched neatly on his nose. 

“There is more to you than beauty,” Enjolras apparently feels it necessary to point out, and Cosette just raises an eyebrow at him. 

“It is very easy for you or I to say so,” she says, “When we are both blessed with faces people like to see, and therefore are more likely to value,” she points out. 

“Appearance doesn’t signal virtue,” Enjolras argues. 

“Of course not, but not everyone agrees, and many of us rely on a good marriage,” Cosette reminds him. Any of them can do better by a good marriage, of course, and Combeferre would continue to support her if she chose to remain a spinster all her life, but many wouldn’t see that as their first choice, and many more simply wouldn’t have the option, with less supportive families. 

Cosette interrupts any further argument Enjolras might have made by walking over and tying his cravat for him - and judging by the look on Enjolras’ face, she’s tied it just a shade too tight. Combeferre smiles to himself, and turns the page on his book. He really does love his family. There is little he wouldn’t do for them. 

  
  
  
  


Every family of note will be at this ball. It is an honour to have been invited, and Combeferre suspects they are attending because of the queen’s show of favour to Cosette. The Fauchelevants aren’t no one, but they aren’t titled, either. Mme Fauchelevant is very nearly vibrating with anticipation, but she has the manners not to show it too obviously. “Now, Combeferre,” she says. “This is a grand opportunity. You must try to see Cosette, at least, matched, if you can. At this ball, she might catch the eye of someone very rich and important, and we must take advantage of the queen’s favour while people still remember it.” 

“Mother,” Combeferre says, exasperated. “If someone at this ball catches Cosette’s eye, I shall do my utmost to make the introduction. The same goes for Enjolras, however unlikely that may be. But I will not be pawning my siblings off to the highest bidder; we are not in such dire straits as that.” 

“Think of your family, Combeferre,” she says, unsatisfied. 

“I am thinking of my family,” he says firmly. “And I will hear no more of this. You have impressed upon me the importance of looking out for them, and I intend to do so. You must simply trust me.” 

She huffs, but that does seem to be the end of it, for now anyway. They follow Enjolras and Cosette out of the carriage, and walk up the grounds to the main door of the estate, where their outer layers are hung in a coat room, and all four are led to the ballroom. 

A string quartet is playing something modern - Corelli, he believes - and young debutantes and their chaperones fill the space. Many are dancing already; Cosette holds her dance card in one hand, and looks about the room in awe. It isn’t long before Cosette has admirers all about, of course. 

“Stay with me,” Enjolras pleads to Cosette quietly, clutching her hand. 

“Sorry,” she replies, and she is sorry, of course, but she did come here to dance, and not just with her brother. She has three names on her dance card before the first song ends, and she is swept into a minuet by a young woman in a red gown. 

Enjolras scowls. Not a single suitor dares approach him for several dances; Cosette remains on the floor for all of them, chatting with suitors, and dancing the night away. A daring young man dares approach Enjolras, and he glares even harder, until the man stammers an excuse and disappears. 

“At least Cosette seems to be enjoying herself,” Combeferre remarks, arriving at Enjolras’ side. 

“I don’t like to dance,” Enjolras mutters. 

“Ah, but how will you make your political acquaintances when you glare away anyone who might try to speak with you?” Combeferre asks mildly. 

Enjolras’ scowl lessens slightly. “I don’t think anyone here wants to talk politics with me,” he admits. “All anyone is talking or whispering about is matches and dancing and -” 

“Well, this is a ball,” Combeferre points out. 

“I am well aware.” 

“If you would care for some advice from your elder brother..” Combeferre starts, and Enjolras sighs, but nods. 

“You know I respect your opinions,” Enjolras says. 

“Well, then. Try to relax, just a little bit. You’ll find people easier to talk to when they see you as approachable. I’m not saying you have to dance with everyone who asks, but you’ll find it difficult to just jump in and start speaking politics; you have to build those relationships first,” Combeferre advises. “That means being at least somewhat sociable, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras sighs, but his posture relaxes slightly. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits. “Small talk is.. Not my strength, Combeferre.” 

“You’re anxious,” Combeferre observes. “It’s understandable. Not everyone is as much a natural as our Cosette.” 

Enjolras isn’t great with people. With crowds, absolutely, or with his lessons - since he was a boy, he’s been good at speaking well when asked - but not as skilled with the social graces. It is, he admits only to himself, one of the reasons he hasn’t wanted to come out. Being out requires a skill set Enjolras knows he’s lacking in. It doesn’t help, of course, that he genuinely thinks many of the expectations society places on them are nonsense, and that the class divides must be torn down, with extreme prejudice. He has strong opinions, and has never shied from sharing them. That won’t serve him well here though, as much as that irks him. He should be allowed to speak openly and freely, but if he does, no one will listen. Instead he has to be clever, and charismatic, and he is fortunate to have Combeferre, who has cleverness in spades, but charisma is all his sister’s. 

Speaking of Cosette, she returns from her last dance, flushed and smiling wide. “I am having such f- Oh!” She is cut off as someone runs right into her - a young man with blue eyes and an abundance of freckles, and red hair. He has lost his hat, and seems to be running after it. 

“Apologies, my lady,” he says, but he is gone, swept up by the crowds, before Cosette can apologize in turn. 

“Oh,” Cosette repeats again, dumb-struck. She stares after him, and then whirls around to turn on Combeferre. “I need to know who that is,” she says, “And I need an introduction.” 

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. Cosette has danced with several young men and women tonight, and taken a shine to none of them the way she seemed to be taken with this young man whose name none of them knew. 

Combeferre, of course, can deny her nothing, especially when she makes this particular face at him. “I will do what I can,” he promises. 

Enjolras stares at him, aghast. “He’s a stranger!” 

“So are most of the people in this room,” Combeferre shrugs. “Cosette knows her mind; it’ll do neither of us any good to stand in her way.” 

Combeferre doesn’t have too much trouble tracking the young man down. What he finds, though, is troubling. Not on the young Pontmercy boy’s behalf, of course - everyone says he’s a bit absent-minded, but kind and well-meaning, and he’s heard the same about town. The boy has a wholesome reputation. It’s his family that poses the issue - Baron Gillenormand Pontmercy. A rich, miserly old man with a tight grip on his estate and a tighter grip on his grandson, a deeply unpleasant man by all accounts. Still, Combeferre brings himself to introduce himself to the man, and then to his grandson, who is even ganglier than he first appeared. Cosette appears at his shoulder like magic not long after, and he introduces them properly. 

“Baron Pontmercy, Mr. Pontmercy, this is my younger sister, Cosette Fauchelevant.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Cosette does an impeccably curtsy, and Marius blushes what should be an impossible shade of red. 

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, my lady,” he manages to stammer out after an uncomfortably long silence, which the baron does nothing to improve with his expressive and disapproving eyebrows. 

Combeferre dislikes him immediately. Cosette is conducting herself impeccably, and still he looks down on her - on the both of them. 

Both Cosette and Marius are blushing, and are now gazing into each other’s eyes. 

“W-would you do me the honour of a dance, Miss Fauchelevant?” Marius asks. 

“Of course.” 

And off they go. 

Combeferre excuses himself from the baron’s presence, and wishes he had another drink in hand. He isn’t much of a drinker, but if he ends up with this surly old man for an in-law, he might just start. 

“Careful, now, or people will begin to mistake you for me,” Enjolras says, noting the sour look on Combeferre’s face. “Is Cosette’s beau not to your liking? If you told her so, you know she’d take it into account, at least.” 

Cosette does what she likes, of course, but she does trust her brother, and values his opinion. Combeferre knows that if he expressed disapproval, she would take it seriously. 

“I know,” he says. “It’s not her beau I take issue with, it’s his grandfather. A real - well. It isn’t polite to say.” 

“I know you want to say it, though,” Enjolras says wryly. 

“Very badly,” Combeferre admits, and they both laugh. “Still, if the boy makes Cosette happy…” 

“She doesn’t know him,” Enjolras says, and he’s back to frowning. 

“Ah, I’d almost forgotten your vendetta against love at first sight,” Combeferre teases. 

“There’s no such thing,” Enjolras insists, “And rushing in only ends in a poor match.” 

“Maybe so. I suspect we’ll not be having a wedding anytime soon, regardless, if the baron’s permission stands in the way.” 

“At least Mama will be pleased - a baron,” Enjolras muses. 

The dance ends some minutes later, and Marius immediately asks her to another. It isn’t quite proper, to dance two in a row with the same man - at the very least, it might be taken as some sort of intent - but Cosette is quite sure she doesn’t mind. By the time she returns to her brothers’ sides, the night is nearly over, the quartet wrapping up. “Well, this has been an adventure,” she says brightly. “Did either of you dance even once?”

“No,” Enjolras says. 

“Nor me,” Combeferre admits. 

“Hopeless, the both of you. But oh, did you see Marius?”

“I daresay so, since I made the introduction, and it is my job to chaperone,” Combeferre says. 

“Wasn’t he lovely? Such a gentleman. And his eyes.” Cosette sighs softly. “He’s so kind, and gentle. Not a bad dancer, for someone so clumsy. He’s sweet, don’t you think?”

“He sounds like he’s swept you right off your feet,” Combeferre replies. 

“He’s a darling,” Cosette says wistfully. “He says he’ll call on us soon, Combeferre.” 

“Mama will be thrilled to hear it,” Combeferre shakes his head. “Come. If we are to be receiving a baron, we ought to turn in early tonight, and ensure our home is presentable.”


	3. Working title: Gillenormand is a big bag of dicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, the chapter title says it all.

It is a dreary morning, drizzling rain making everything outside look rather grey. The Fauchelevant family, though, hardly seems to notice, still too caught up in the excitement of the night before. They sit down to breakfast, chattering away. 

“Do you think he really will call?” Cosette asks, referring, of course, to Marius Pontmercy. 

“I do hope so,” Mme Fauchelevant says, fussing over a stray curl on Cosette. “Imagine! My daughter, marrying a baron.” 

“He’s not a baron yet, mama, and that’s hardly the point,” Cosette protests, but Combeferre notices that she is blushing, and does nothing to refute the idea of marrying. 

Enjolras snorts, but Mme Fauchelevant pays him no mind except to glare at him briefly. 

“If he does call, we must be prepared,” she insists. “Combeferre, I do hope you are taking this seriously.” 

“Of course I am,” Combeferre frowns. “But I can do nothing to force Mr. Pontmercy to visit; it will play out as it should without our interference.” 

“Oh, psh.” She shakes her head. “There’s nothing wrong with a little interference.” 

Breakfast is then interrupted by the butler. “A letter for you, sir,” he says, and delivers it to Combeferre. It is sealed with the mark of Baron Pontmercy himself, and Cosette and Mme Fauchelevant both lean in. 

“What does it say?” Cosette asks. 

“Open it!” Mme Fauchelevant demands. 

Combeferre takes his knife and opens the letter, unfolding it. He reads it silently, much to his sister and mother’s anxiety, and then folds it up again and puts it away. “Cosette and I are invited to tea at the Pontmercy estate today,” he announces, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. 

Cosette squeals in excitement, and Mme Fauchelevant is all aflutter. “Oh! What shall you wear, my dear? The yellow day dress, I think,” she suggests. 

“Yes, Mama,” Cosette agrees. The yellow dress is very nice. 

Enjolras finishes his breakfast and pushes his chair back. It scrapes across the floor and catches everyone’s attention. “If we are to abandon good sense in favour of romantic aspirations,” he announces, “then I believe it is time for me to retreat. I plan to call on some friends in town today.” 

“Be back for dinner, please,” Combeferre requests, and Enjolras nods. 

Combeferre knows that not all of Enjolras’ friends are one their mother would approve of, but he thinks it’s good to break down some of those barriers. He would be the worst sort of hypocrite to disapprove, anyway, given his affair with Courfeyrac. 

Combeferre has the carriage prepared for them, and he and Cosette arrive at the Pontmercy estate in good time. Combeferre knows from the instant they arrive that the Baron isn’t pleased to have them, despite his invitation - they are left waiting a shade too long to be shown in, and then they are left waiting even longer before the Baron and Marius arrive. 

“I am so sorry, I do hope you weren’t waiting long,” Marius says, earnest, and Cosette forgives him instantly, of course. 

“Not at all,” she assures him. 

“Very good.” The Baron looks down his nose at her, and then walks straight past both Fauchelevant siblings to sit. “Tea shall be served shortly.” 

They sit. Cosette sits directly across from Marius at the table, and the pair immediately begin to gaze soulfully into each other's eyes. Combeferre leaves them to it; he wonders what the baron is playing at, because he doubts this is meant to be a show of approval. 

Combeferre’s discomfort grows as the tea is served. Baron Pontmercy makes only the slightest attempts at hiding his insults, and it’s lucky that Cosette is distracted, because she usually has a keener ear for the subtleties of conservation than he does, and she wouldn’t take kindly to it. 

“-All stocked on our own estate, of course,” the Baron is saying. Combeferre reluctantly drags his attention back to the conservation at hand. “Is it terribly inconvenient, having to get your fish from the market?”

It’s little things like this - jabs at the size of their estate, at the state of their household staff. 

“We enjoy the opportunity to support our local community of tradespeople,” Combeferre answers smoothly. 

The finger sandwiches and biscuits are taken away. The teapot remains, as do the accompanying lemon slices. The lemons, they have been reliably informed, are imported from Genoa, and are a particularly expensive sort - surely better than anything either of them have had before. 

“A word, if you please, Mr. Combeferre.” 

Another rudeness, of course - Combeferre doesn’t like being called Mr. Fauchelevant, but he is head of the household, and to address him so informally suggests a closeness that he and the Baron do not have. 

“Of course, Baron Pontmercy.” Combeferre is inclined to take this as permission to be equally informal with the Gillenormand, but he curbs his tongue - for now, anyway. He knows when it’s wise to bide his time. 

They don’t leave the room - to leave Marius and Cosette unchaperoned would be to invite scandal - but they step aside enough that the pair shouldn’t be able to hear. 

“I have some concerns,” Gillenormand says. “I mean no offense to you and your family, of course, but there is an undeniable inferiority of position and circumstance, which cannot be dismissed. And while I am certain that your sister is a lovely girl, she is not the sort whom I intend to see married to my grandson.” Gillenormand is severe, stern. Clearly in his own mind, he is a kindly but stern adult figure reminding an unruly child of his place; unpleasant in the moment, but ultimately so for the greater good. Combeferre despises him. 

“Have you told the young Mr. Marius what you think?” Combeferre asks coolly. 

“I have. But he is a headstrong young man who thinks himself a  _ romantic _ .” His lip twists in disdain. “Romance is all well and good, but I’m sure you know better than I that marriage is, at its heart, a financial arrangement.” 

“My sister’s interest is not in your grandson’s fortune,” Combeferre says, going from cool to downright chilly. “Nor is mine.” 

“All the same, I’m sure you can understand that, as fine as I’m sure your family is, there is little benefit to Marius from this arrangement. I will dissuade him, of course, and will put my foot down should it come to that, but I would prefer your cooperation in the matter. Speak to your wayward sister, Mr. Combeferre; she should set her sights somewhat more on her own level, lest her ambition lands her in greater trouble than either of you is prepared for.”

Combeferre frowns. He is furious, of course. Gillenormand has insulted his home, his family, and his own honour, and his willingness to continue to stand there and listen to it is quickly waning. 

“Thank you for having us for tea, and for making yourself so very clear,” Combeferre says, now icy. “I have suddenly remembered that I have a pressing appointment, and so I regret that Cosette and I will have to take our leave.” 

“Very well. I trust you will keep our conversation in mind.” Gillenormand seems to think he’s won, that Combeferre is retreating. Combeferre is happy to let him continue to think so. 

“Cosette.” He interrupts her conversation with Marius. “We must be going.” 

“But -” 

“Now.” 

Cosette nods reluctantly, and turns to Marius once more. “Until next time, Mr. Marius,” she says with a soft smile.

Marius smiles back, and kisses her hand. “Until next time, Miss Cosette.” 

The carriage is waiting for them when they arrive; Gillenormand must have sent for it already. “What happened with the Baron?” Cosette asks, anxious for news. 

Combeferre hums, trying to think of what to say. “Your courtship may be more troublesome than we expect,” he says eventually. “You know I will support you in whatever you choose, Cosette, but the same cannot be said for Baron Pontmercy.” 

Cosette frowns. “He disapproves?”

“He is an old man, and set in his elitist ways,” Combeferre says. “He made.. a number of very thinly veiled accusations, and said that you are to cease to accept Marius’ courtship attempts.” 

“Why, that old-” Cosette’s fists are balled. “How dare he!”

“He’ll do everything he can to end Marius’ courtship with you,” Combeferre says. “And he is a man of wealth and influence. If he decides you truly pose a threat, he may try to ruin you, or our entire family.”

“You aren’t really thinking of doing what he says,” Cosette protests. “Combeferre, you can’t forbid me from seeing Marius. I love him, and he loves me. I know we’ve only met twice, but-” 

“I have no intention of seeing the Baron satisfied, especially not at your expense,” Combeferre assures her. 

Cosette relaxes some. “Then what do you have in mind?”

“Caution and good sense. If Marius calls on you, it would be the height of rudeness to send him away. It is only proper to be polite. If he asks you to dance, you may accept one, but not more. Be cautious, for now, while I deliberate on what our options may be.” Combeferre can’t think of many ways around Gillenormand’s influence, but he isn’t going to give up so easily. 

Combeferre has a lot of thinking to do. 


	4. Working title: uh-oh the kids are fighting

Combeferre has seen this play many times, but it’s never less magical to see Courfeyrac transform onstage. Courfeyrac inhabits his roles deeply, and it never ceases to astound him. It is a desperately needed distraction from his own family’s drama, both the play, and the anticipation of seeing Courfeyrac afterwards. Courfeyrac is always in a good mood after a successful performance. 

Combeferre greets the people he ought to in the lobby of the theatre, and then makes his way backstage. Courfeyrac’s dressing room door is unlocked, and he knocks to announce himself before stepping in. Courfeyrac is seated at his vanity, washing the light makeup from his face. “My favourite patron!” he announces, obviously happy to see Combeferre, and stands. “Twice in a week you’ve come to see my play; people may talk.” 

“People do little else,” Combeferre says. It’s a concern, of course, especially with the newly pressing need to remain respectable for Cosette’s sake, but he pushes it from his mind for now. It isn’t unusual for a young gentleman to be a patron of the arts. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes focus on the package in Combeferre’s hands. “You come bearing gifts, I see.” He stretches out his arms toward Combeferre and his aforementioned gifts. 

Combeferre’s eyes glint, and he holds the package to himself. “Hm, do I? Perhaps I simply did some shopping before arriving here.” 

“You would have sent the package home before you,” Courfeyrac pouts. “Don’t be a tease, my love.” 

Combeferre laughs at the expression on Courfeyrac’s face, which only serves to make Courfeyrac’s pout grow more pronounced. 

“Very well.” He presents the neatly wrapped package to Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac resists the urge to tear the gift open - the paper is of nice enough quality that he ought to keep it, and reuse it himself - and neatly opens the corners, unfolding the paper to reveal a fabric in vibrant yellow. Courfeyrac had been discussing, on Combeferre’s last visit, the current colour trends, and had said that yellow was seeming to be the next big colour in fashion. He’d lamented at the time his tragic lack of anything in the colour, and so Combeferre had stolen one of Courfeyrac’s waistcoats and had another made in its style, but in the bright canary colour Courfeyrac was so eager to own. 

“Oh!” Courfeyrac exclaims over it, and then sheds his own waistcoat in order to don the new one. It clashes terribly with the rest of his outfit, but the fit is good, Combeferre notes appreciatively. 

“The bold colour suits you,” Combeferre tells him, and Courfeyrac beams at him. 

“You spoil me, you silly thing. I can’t imagine how much this fabric cost.” It isn’t a complaint - Courfeyrac enjoys being spoiled. 

“I’m glad you’re pleased.” Combeferre takes a step closer, dragging a hand down Courfeyrac’s side slowly to land on his hip. 

“Very pleased indeed.” Courfeyrac looks up at Combeferre through long eyelashes, and bites his lip, before leaning up to steal a kiss. “I might show you just how pleased.”

“Oh? I do enjoy your demonstrations..” Combeferre murmurs, and kisses Courfeyrac again. 

Kisses grow deeper, and hands wander freely. Courfeyrac’s new waistcoat is hung neatly over a chair, but the rest of their clothes are soon shed on the floor. Some time later, Combeferre has Courfeyrac tucked to his side, head on his shoulder. Combeferre presses some slow, lazy kisses to Courfeyrac’s jaw and neck, and they exchange a few more kisses. “I am thoroughly convinced that you are very pleased indeed,” Combeferre says with a teasing smile. 

Courfeyrac swats his shoulder and laughs. “Yes, you know just how to please me, Combeferre, though I shouldn’t feed your ego on the matter.” 

“No; between us, mine is the ego we should be most concerned with,” Combeferre laughs with him. 

“I think we have both thoroughly earned our egos, thank you very much.” Courfeyrac kisses Combeferre’s shoulder, and it turns to a playful bite. 

“Perhaps we have,” Combeferre allows. He certainly has no complaints. 

“Now we’ve had the obligatory pillow talk, I demand to know all the details from the ball. It was Enjolras and Cosette’s first, wasn’t it?” Courfeyrac hasn’t met the twins, not yet, but he knows a lot about them - Combeferre likes to talk about them, he’s very proud of them, and much of his life currently revolves around them. 

“It was - and would you believe, Cosette managed to find the love of her life within the first two hours,” Combeferre says dryly. 

Courfeyrac sits partway up, propping himself up on one elbow. “Is the young gentleman or lady worthy?”

“His reputation is good, and he seems like a kind young man,” Combeferre acknowledges. “I haven’t yet had the chance to speak with him properly. But his family…” Combeferre shakes his head. 

Courfeyrac frowns. “I wouldn’t think you’d care much about his station?” he says, rather pointedly. 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Combeferre says. “If he makes her happy, money is - not  _ not _ a concern, but certainly not a limiting factor. No, it’s only that the boy’s grandfather is perhaps the most heinous man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting; he invited Cosette and I to tea only for the purpose of insulting myself, my family, my home, and more, and then to tell me that he will in no way consent to their courtship, and that I ought to have Cosette set her sights lower.” Combeferre huffs, finally feeling free to be openly frustrated. He doesn’t want to upset Cosette. 

Courfeyrac looks almost as offended as Combeferre on Combeferre’s behalf. “What a terrible sort of person! How dare he!” 

“I could hardly believe it,” Combeferre admits. “I suspected he wouldn’t approve, of course, they’re a wealthy and influential family, it would be - really, I’m sure it will be the gossip of the season - but to be so openly rude, it was astounding.” 

“How is poor Cosette taking it?” Courfeyrac asks. 

“She’s as stubborn as always, of course,” Combeferre smiles. “She won’t be told no, not even by a baron. I’ve counselled her to be cautious, and to go slowly with her beau, to buy me some time to try to work out how exactly to manage this. As much as I despise the man, it wouldn’t be wise to just openly risk his ire. It is also my first season at the head of my family in public - he wouldn’t find it difficult to make life much harder for my family. If it were only myself, I wouldn’t mind, but..” He shakes his head. “No, this will require a clever solution.”

“And of course you won’t tell Cosette to simply choose another man,” Courfeyrac agrees. “If it truly is love, there won’t be any stopping it, and no one ought to try.” 

“Just so.” Combeferre sighs. “It’s all a mess. Enjolras only knows the half of it, and thinks the whole thing ridiculous anyways - I’m just glad I don’t have to worry about both of them trying to make complicated matches this season, honestly. Society would say I should be eager to have them both do well in their first season, but truthfully, I can barely handle Cosette’s troubles; adding Enjolras and any sort of relationship drama he might find to the mix would be simply too much.” 

“Let us hope for your sake, then, that Enjolras manages to behave himself at least for now,” Courfeyrac says, and then he climbs onto Combeferre’s lap to kiss him. “And let us be glad I am here to thoroughly distract you from all of your woes.” 

Combeferre is nearly late to dinner. This is a problem in two ways - first, that he has once again requested that Enjolras return in time for the evening meal, and it would make him a hypocrite to be late himself; and second, that it draws his mother’s eagle-eyed attention to him, and what he may have been up to to make him so nearly late. He hopes there is no mark visible above his collar - Courfeyrac was dedicated to demonstrating just how effective a distraction he could be. 

“I am glad you have been able to join us,” Mme Fauchelevant says pointedly. “I do hope you are paying more attention to your familial duty than you are the appropriate time for dinner.” 

“I am certain I left the house in very capable hands for the few hours I was absent, mother,” Combeferre replies, and they all sit to eat. 

“Speaking of your familial duties - I do hope there has been some progress with the Baron and his grandson?” she asks. 

Cosette leans in for the answer, not even pretending to be distracted by her meal. Enjolras only scoffs. 

“It has been barely a full day since we were at tea with the Baron,” Combeferre says. “To call too soon is to seem overeager, and the courtship is in early stages yet. And there is the Baron’s disapproval to consider - I have said we must approach this carefully, and I stand by it.” 

“A duke is coming to town,” Mme Fauchelevant changes the topic. “Perhaps we shall have both twins married off by the end of the season - a duke and a baron, it would be quite something for this family.” 

“Mother,” Enjolras frowns. “I’ve already told you, I’m not a prize, to be pawned off in service of your social ambitions.”

“So dramatic,” Mme Fauchelevant frowns. “Marriage is not only a matter of the heart, though your sister has been fortunate in that area. It is an economic proposition, too, and a social one. If you wish to make yourself heard and respected, then gaining the lands and title of a dukedom would be a grand step in that direction.” 

“I wish to be heard and respected on my own terms, for my own worth, not for the titles borrowed from another.” Enjolras has clearly had this conversation with her once already today. Combeferre isn’t sorry he missed it. 

“Titles certainly won’t hurt,” Mme Fauchelevant sniffs. “You are ambitious in every way but this - why can’t you simply apply yourself to this, as well?”

“I think,” Combeferre interjects before Enjolras and Mme Fauchelevant can work themselves up any further, “that perhaps we ought to return to other topics -” 

“Enough of your peace-making, Combeferre,” Enjolras snaps. Combeferre is surprised by the look of betrayal in Enjolras’ eyes. “I know things are different, since father -” Enjolras pauses. “But once you took my side, you defended me. You agreed with me. I thought you would still be my friend, and not only my elder brother - I didn’t expect you to fold under society’s pressures.”

That hurts - mostly because Combeferre hears the truth in it. He swallows, and Enjolras is still glaring at him. He isn’t used to being the one Enjolras is glaring at. 

“Enjolras!” Mme Fauchelevant is the first one to speak up. “Respect your-” 

“No.” Combeferre interjects, holding up a hand. “No, he is right. Enjolras, I am sorry. Things _are_ different now, you are right. Whatever my misgivings about the society we live in - and do not mistake me, those remain unchanged - I also have to recognize that our society will not change overnight, and that, to some extent, I must operate within it.” He pauses, considering. “You know I will not push you, nor Cosette, into anything you do not want. Nor do I mean to silence you. I’m sorry.” He thinks of Courfeyrac. He thinks about how he’s keeping Courfeyrac waiting. He had been thinking of making it official, and damn what anyone thinks. Courfeyrac deserves that much, and Combeferre thinks they’re really, actually happy together. Now, though, he has Cosette to consider. “Cosette has fallen in love. Whatever you think of that, Enjolras, I know you love her as much as I do. If I must play by society’s rules to help ensure her happiness, I will. I hope you will help, too.” 

Cosette turns her wide eyes on her brother, and Enjolras sighs, and deflates. 

“Fine. But I’m not courting this duke - some of my friends are acquainted with him, and even they call him a rake, and a drunk, and a gambler.” He crosses his arms. “I’ll have nothing to do with him.” 

“Of course,” Combeferre agrees, and stares down his mother, daring her to have anything to say about it. 

“Hmph.” She isn’t pleased, but she doesn’t argue. 


	5. Working title: Enter Grantaire

The duke doesn’t go far from their minds, of course. After all, he will be hosting the next ball they are due to attend. Since their argument, Combeferre has been trying to spend more time with Enjolras, and he thinks they are on their way to mending things. Cosette and Enjolras have been bickering less, too - as siblings, of course they always have their spats, but they’ve always been close, and to see them working together again is something Combeferre is glad to see. 

They arrive at the ball together, Mme Fauchelevant included. Cosette wears a rose-coloured gown, and Enjolras matches her in a waistcoat of the same colour, under his favoured bright red coat. Combeferre is less fond of the new trend towards bright colours, to Courfeyrac’s eternal chagrin, and so he is dressed in a more muted brown, while Mme Fauchelevant is dressed the most garishly of any of them, in a brighter pink. All together, though, they cut a matching picture, the Fauchelevants, and though they are untitled, their entrance still garners some interest. 

Once again, Cosette has no trouble filling her dance card. She graciously accepts requests, but hopes all the while that Marius will come to whisk her away. She spots him, once, across the room. He is in conversation with someone she doesn’t recognize. The man cuts an unusual figure; he is dressed well, in fine fabrics and new fashions, but his face is just a little odd, and his hair is untamed and unruly. Cosette has little time to stare, as the dance calls for her to turn away after only a few moments to face a new direction, but she hopes that Marius will soon finish his conversation and come to find her. She supposes, too, that his new friend must be the duke. There are always new and strange faces in London during the season, of course, and this man could be someone simply visiting from the country, but she thinks he is too well-dressed for that. 

Enjolras, meanwhile, has promised his sister that he will help if he can. This means that he, too, has spotted Marius with his friend, and has taken up a spot on the wall not too far away to lean against. He continues to glare off anyone who dares a second attempt at asking him to dance, and instead takes the opportunity to try to learn a little more about this man Cosette has fallen for so quickly. 

“Just ask her, and damn what your grandfather thinks,” the man in the green coat is telling Marius. 

“Oh, but what if his awful behaviour has frightened her off?” Marius frets. “He told me what he said to her brother, and I wouldn’t blame her in the slightest if she hated me now.” 

“If you ignore your lady friend all evening, I can promise you it won’t help your case. If you ask, she may reject you, and then you will know for sure. Or, you may find she is of sterner stuff than to be scared off by the old man, and then you will know she is truly the wonder you say she is,” the man in green reasons. 

“Oh..” Marius dithers, and fidgets with his hands, and frets with the hem of his coat. 

Enjolras looks at the man in green. He is unfamiliar to Enjolras, but Enjolras appreciates the advice he is giving Marius, at least. Marius, too, he finds he cannot entirely dislike. Of course, he has his doubts as to whether he is truly good enough for Cosette, but that is certainly not his choice to make. He eyes the pair of them again, Marius and his friend, and then walks away as the song comes to its conclusion. 

He catches Cosette just before someone else can ask her to dance. “If you would do me the honour?” He holds out a hand to her, and Cosette raises an eyebrow. Enjolras frowns. “I  _ can _ dance, as you well know, I simply choose not to entertain anyone’s notions of courtship, and dancing would only encourage them.” 

“Of course.” Cosette is amused, and she doesn’t bother to hide it; she just takes her brother’s hand, and the next dance begins. “So - any news of Marius? It seems he has made a friend.” They bow, and move to opposite sides of the room. 

“I don’t know who his friend is,” Enjolras admits when they come back together, and turn about. “But I can tell you he  _ wants _ to ask you to dance. It seems he is afraid his grandfather has scared you off.” They are separated again, dancing with separate partners for a few moments. 

“That’s nonsense,” Cosette shakes her head as they are reunited, and bow once more. “I won’t let one rude old man get in my way.” 

“No, I imagine not.” Enjolras holds out a hand, and Cosette makes a turn on her own. 

“But he doesn’t believe I am only after his money? Or whatever other lie his grandfather may have fed him?” Cosette asks, before the dance requires they separate once more. They complete a figure separately, and then the cycle begins again. 

“He didn’t say anything to make me believe so,” Enjolras replies when he has the chance. “Mostly, I think, he is scared of rejection.” 

“Then he has nothing at all to fear,” Cosette says firmly. 

“Am I to tell him so?” Enjolras asks, though he would rather not have to interfere so directly. Cosette turns gracefully, and Enjolras misses some of his footwork, but makes up for it easily. They are separated again. 

“No,” Cosette says when they return, having thought about her answer during her figure with her other partner. “I think I shall have to make myself clear.” 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “You will ask him yourself?”

“I think I shall,” Cosette decides. They take a few more steps together, and then the dance separates them again. “Why should I have to wait on him?”

Enjolras grins. Here is the bold Cosette he knows and loves. “I am sure it will come as a relief to him,” he tells her. 

“Good.” The song ends, and they each bow, before walking together off of the dance floor and back into the crowd. “Will you walk with me to him?”

“Of course.” 

Enjolras accompanies Cosette all the way to where Marius is still standing with his friend. The two of them are no longer alone, though; there are a handful of young gentles standing about, eyes fixed on the stranger. 

“He must be the duke, then,” Cosette comments quietly to Enjolras, who nods. 

“He must love all of the attention,” Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Cosette muses, observing more closely. “He looks uncomfortable, if anything.” 

Enjolras doesn’t see it; the man looks perfectly in his element, talking and joking, as the gentles around him simper and sigh and bat their eyelashes. He says so - “I don’t see it.” 

“Oh, he hides it well.. There’s just something about the look in his eye, I think,” she says. She doesn’t delay any longer, though, and paying no mind at all to the gentles around them, she approaches Marius, and curtsies. Enjolras stands stiff at her side. “Mr. Marius,” she addresses him. 

Marius has gone an odd shade of red, blushing all the way to the tip of his nose. Enjolras begrudgingly finds it endearing. “Miss Cosette. I am very glad to see you.” 

“That is very kind of you,” she says with a smile. “I was wondering, sir, if you would do me the honour of a dance. I believe there is a waltz, next.” 

So much for careful - dancing a waltz together is practically an announcement of courtship; it’s an intimate dance. Marius’ blush spreads to his ears, and he looks like he might faint, but he nods. “Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.” He takes the hand Cosette is offering, and off they go. 

“Well. It seems his lady has more nerve than even I could have imagined,” his companion - the duke - says, and the gentles around him titter. 

“More people should value courage and earnestness over meaningless social norms which only serve to divide the people,” Enjolras replies, cold as ice. 

“You mistake me, young sir - I do think it admirable. I only hope she does not come to regret it.” The duke seems to forget his companions as his attention zeroes in on Enjolras himself. “But forgive me, we have not been introduced. I am Grantaire.” 

A first name - unusual. Even as a duke new to his title, for the old Duke of Grafton had passed away only a few years ago, he should have been going by his dukedom, not his first name - especially not with strangers. Even for peers to share a first name upon a first meeting is unusual. 

“A pleasure, I am sure, your grace,” Enjolras says, because even he has learned the required niceties. He chooses to introduce himself in the same manner. “And I am Enjolras.” 

“Ah, then you already know who I am,” Grantaire seems to pick up on Enjolras’ use of his title. 

“A stranger, in unusual finery and with a legion of faithful hopefuls,” Enjolras points out, “Is hardly subtle.” 

“I suppose not.” He looks ruefully at the gentles around him, who seem put out by his distraction. He finds he doesn’t mind - the last thing he wants is people throwing themselves at him for his title. They don’t know him, and wouldn’t like him nearly so much if they did. “None can compare to the fair adonis I see before me, though,” he says, because it’s true - Enjolras is radiant. He’s never seen anyone like him. 

Enjolras doesn’t appreciate the compliment; he is no treasure hunter, eager to fawn over the next most powerful man he comes across. “I am certain a man of your.. Reputation.. Has seen a great number of people he might call adonis,” he says, thinking of Grantaire’s reputation as a rake. 

“Ah, you have me there, but truly your beauty is unique, and I shall call none adonis again after seeing your fair face.” Grantaire is all charm. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. It is rude, but he doesn’t care; he doesn’t buy a word of it. “Save your flattery for one who wants it, your grace.” 

“You injure me. Shall I call you Apollo instead, for surely you are descended from the heavens above?” Grantaire persists. 

“You may call me by my name, or not at all,” Enjolras says, sharp. “I must take my leave; I believe my brother is calling for me. Good day, your grace.” 

He feels Grantaire’s eyes on him as he goes, and for the rest of the night, but they do not speak again. 


	6. Working title: a rake? a sweetheart? both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did check to see what the units of distance measurement would be in this era in Britain, and inches and miles were used, though they are not equivalent to a modern american inch or mile. the more you know!

“Oh! I am so very proud of you!” Mme Fauchelevant is addressing Enjolras. This is odd for a number of reasons; first, that Enjolras cannot think of what he has done to deserve it; and second, that she is not typically an incredibly affectionate woman to begin with, or she hasn’t been, not since he was a child. 

He glances at Combeferre, silently asking with wide eyes what he’s done. 

Mme Fauchelevant tells him before Combeferre can help. “The whole town is abuzz! They say the duke is quite enchanted with you. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but oh! It’s wonderful.” 

“The duke?” Enjolras thinks back to his exchange with Grantaire. He’d flirted, sure, but the duke flirts with everyone, he’s a rake. “I’m really not sure-” 

“Oh, don’t be modest.” Mme Fauchelevant hugs him, and Enjolras stares at Combeferre, who just shrugs. 

“It’s true about the rumours - everyone is talking about you two,” Combeferre admits. It’s only been a day, and the whole town is abuzz. News travels fast. 

Enjolras groans. “He’s an impossible flirt, and nothing happened, mother. I don’t want you to raise your hopes.”

“Tell me you at least didn’t discourage him. So you won’t marry him - I can’t make you, and your brother certainly won’t.” She glares at Combeferre. 

“I will not throw Enjolras in the path of the duke if he doesn’t want to be there, and I will not make anyone do anything.” Combeferre says firmly. 

“Fine. But even just courting him could do wonders for our standing,” she presses. 

“What about our standing?” Cosette has just arrived; she had gone to call on a friend. 

“Enjolras and the duke,” Mme Fauchelevant crows. 

“Oh yes, Musichetta did mention that,” she says, curious. “I thought you said he was - well, I won’t repeat what you said.” 

“Nothing happened,” Enjolras repeats, getting frustrated. 

“Well, that’s not what people are saying. I went to the market today, and let me tell you, people treat you differently when you’re the mother of a future duke,” Mme Fauchelevant says, smug. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but Cosette has a look in her eye, like she’s scheming. It makes Combeferre both proud and worried. 

“How differently?” she asks. 

“Cosette, what are you thinking?” Enjolras asks, dread in his voice. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there were another way, I know you don’t like him,” Cosette says, “But.. Mother has a point. Even just being seen with him changes how people view our family. People like Baron Gillenormand Pontmercy..?”

Enjolras groans. “Cosette, I know you love Marius, but this is a bit low, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” she agrees. “I know it is. But the Baron isn’t afraid of stooping low, either, Enjolras. Please.” She makes big, wide eyes at him. 

Combeferre knows Enjolras will give in, just as he knows Cosette’s plan is a good one - and one he could never have asked Enjolras to be part of himself. 

Enjolras and Cosette are still locked in silent debate. Eventually, Enjolras sighs, and Cosette grins. 

“Alright, then,” he agrees unhappily. “I will allow the duke to court me if he chooses. But I will not marry him,” he whirls on his mother to make sure he is very, very clear. 

“Oh, thank you!” Cosette runs up and hugs Enjolras tight, and Enjolras sighs again, but hugs her back.

“Your Mr. Marius had better be worth all of this.” 

“He is.” 

  
  


“I’m just worried,” Combeferre says, some time later. For once, he’s come to see Courfeyrac in his home, rather than at the theatre. It’s a narrow squeeze to fit them both on Courfeyrac’s bed, which sees Courfeyrac laying half on top of Combeferre’s chest. Combeferre is playing with Courfeyrac’s hair, fingers brushing through his soft curls. “Cosette’s plan makes sense, but it hinges on timing, and reputation, and worst of all, on Enjolras’ ability to playact at courtship well enough to keep a duke interested in him.” 

“That does sound stressful - from what you’ve said, Enjolras doesn’t seem like the sort to even entertain the idea, let alone keep up the act long enough to see it through,” Courfeyrac observes. 

“He’s not, necessarily.. But he is dedicated, when he sets his mind to something, and he does love Cosette enough to agree. I think he’ll do his best to see it through.” Combeferre sighs. 

“Then what worries you so much?”

“There are so many chances for it to go wrong. And.. well, and I have a duty to my family, to do what’s best for them. I don’t care about reputation, you know that. But with so much hinging on it.. I would hate to be the reason this goes wrong.” 

“Why would you..” Courfeyrac seems puzzled, but then something clicks and his expression goes carefully neutral. “You mean you’d hate your  _ oh so distasteful _ connection to me to be the reason the plan goes wrong.” 

Combeferre winces. It’s not fair to Courfeyrac, not at all. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” he says carefully. 

“But that is what you’re so worried about,” Courfeyrac says with narrowed eyes. 

“It’s not that I’m ashamed to be with you - there is no judgement anyone could make that would matter more than you.” 

“Except for the Baron’s opinion,” Courfeyrac says. It’s not like he doesn’t understand, of course, he knows how important Combeferre’s family is to him, but it hurts. 

“Not for my own sake,” Combeferre is desperate for Courfeyrac to understand. 

“Of course not.” Courfeyrac feels his heart sinking, though. “It sounds like you have quite the decision to make.” 

“I love you,” Combeferre says.

“I know. But is that enough?” Courfeyrac sits up, and gets off the bed, pulling his clothes back on. “I can be patient. I have been patient. But there will always be something, won’t there? Some reason to keep us apart; your family will always be impacted by your involvement with me.” 

Combeferre sits up, and watches Courfeyrac silently. 

“I can’t wait forever,” Courfeyrac says eventually. “I understand your obligations. I understand that this is important. I’m not asking you to marry me tomorrow. I just want a promise that you won’t keep me waiting forever. That I won’t always be just a liability.” 

“Courfeyrac-” 

“I think you should go,” Courfeyrac says. He isn’t looking at Combeferre. “Don’t make any rash promises, and don’t come back until you have an answer for me. I love you, and I believe that you love me, but if that isn’t enough.. I deserve better than this, Combeferre, and we both know it.” 

Combeferre looks down, and nods. “You’re right,” he says softly. He’s been thinking the same thing, after all. It just hurts to hear it said. “I’m sorry.” He dresses silently, and it’s awkward, with Courfeyrac not talking to him, but he leaves quickly. 

He doesn’t go straight home. He wanders London for a while, thinking. 

  
  
  


Some days pass, and Combeferre is no closer to a decision. It is three days since the ball when Grantaire, Duke of Grafton, calls on the Fauchelevant family. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, sir,” he says when Combeferre comes to greet him. 

“It is an honour to have you here, your grace,” Combeferre replies. “May I ask what has brought you to our humble home?”

“I have brought a gift for your brother, Mr. Enjolras,” Grantaire says, “And I hope to be allowed to speak with him.” 

“Let me send for him, then.” Combeferre sends a servant to find Enjolras, who comes down shortly. 

“Your grace,” he says in surprise when he sees Grantaire there. 

“Fair - ah - Mr. Enjolras,” Grantaire corrects himself in the presence of Combeferre.

Enjolras manages a smile. “It is an honour to have you come to call.” 

“I have brought you something.” Grantaire presents Enjolras with a bouquet of red roses. 

Enjolras accepts, and his smile grows. He smells the flowers. “They are lovely. It’s very kind of you, sir.” 

If Grantaire thinks it’s odd that Enjolras is so much more receptive now than he had been at the ball, he puts it down to Combeferre’s watchful eye. “It is my pleasure, truly.” He glances at Combeferre, and then back at Enjolras. “I was wondering if you would promenade with me. It is a lovely day, and I have been away from London for some time. Perhaps we could start with the grounds here?”

“Oh.” Enjolras also glances at Combeferre, who nods. “Yes, that would be lovely, your grace.” 

Grantaire offers Enjolras an arm, and Enjolras only just manages to hide a grimace as he takes it. He glances over his shoulder at Combeferre for help. 

“I will chaperone, of course,” Combeferre says. 

“Naturally, Mr. Fauchelevant,” Grantaire agrees. 

It is, in fact, a beautiful day. The typical London fog has gone away under the noontime sun, and it is bright and cheerful. Enjolras thinks that he might have missed it entirely, locked away in the library, if not for Grantaire’s visit. 

Combeferre keeps close enough to hear if voices are raised, but far enough to give them both some privacy. It means that, once they’re outdoors, Enjolras and Grantaire are able to drop some of the awkward formalities, at least. 

“So, out of your watchful brother’s earshot - tell me truly, are you actually pleased to see me?” Grantaire asks as they stroll through the garden. 

Enjolras considers how to answer. “I am not displeased to see you, your grace,” he replies. “I worried I had perhaps crossed a line at our last meeting. I was.. not my best.” 

“Oh, do not worry; even your scorn was as sunlight to a wilting garden, as rain to a man dying of thirst. I should welcome your attention in any form, even were it only to tell me off a thousand different ways.” 

Apparently, Enjolras thinks, Grantaire is a poet. Not one half as good as Jehan, unfortunately. 

“You flatter me,” Enjolras says. “But I am not sunlight, nor rain; only a man, no more or less than yourself.” 

“A man, perhaps, but one more radiant than I knew possible,” Grantaire replies. 

“You are used, perhaps, to your flattery making other men and women swoon,” Enjolras says, “But you saw at the ball I would have none of it. And still you returned?”

“Ah, fair Apollo, having basked in your attention once at the ball, I was as Icarus; desperate to be near again, even if your disdain should melt my wings and see me plummet to the icy sea below.” 

“Cease your nonsensical ramblings. You think me beautiful, you have made that very clear,” Enjolras finally snaps. “Perhaps by turning you away that night, I made you enamored with the idea of a chase, for once, since most seem willing enough to throw themselves at your feet. But if you truly wish to court with me,  _ your grace _ , I would suggest you abandon empty praise, that you take me off this pedestal, and make some attempt to actually know me.” 

“Ah, you have teeth,” Grantaire grins at him. 

“Sharp ones,” Enjolras agrees with a grin, before he remembers he’s supposed to be letting Grantaire court him, and he tries to at least soften the smile. 

Grantaire hesitates. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Enjolras - do you want me here? Or are you entertaining me only because your family or social decorum require it? I enjoyed our conversation at the ball, and I truly would like to know you, but I will not force my presence on you. Tell me now that you would like me to go, and this will be the last you hear from me,” he promises. 

Enjolras is taken by surprise. He hadn’t expected Grantaire to really consider it - he’d figured Grantaire would just take a mile for every inch he was given. It makes him reconsider, for just a moment, his preconceived notions of Grantaire. 

“Well?” Grantaire looks almost nervous. 

“..You don’t need to leave,” he says at last. 

“Do you want me to stay?” It seems like an important distinction. 

“Yes.” Enjolras doesn’t hesitate this time. “Stay, your grace.” 

“You asked me to call me by your name. Won’t you do the same?”

“Call me by my own name?” Enjolras asks, wry. 

Grantaire laughs. “Call me Grantaire. Please.” 

“It wouldn’t be proper.” 

“I didn’t think you cared.” 

“I don’t,” Enjolras admits. “Even so.” 

“An issue of familiarity, then,” Grantaire supposes. 

“So far, all you know about me is that you think I am beautiful, that I have teeth, and that my name is Enjolras,” he says. “And all I know about you is based on your reputation. So far, your flirting has done nothing to suggest to me that the reputation isn’t earned, of course, but still, reputation is all it is. You have shown surprising consideration already,” Enjolras admits. “Perhaps, someday, I might call you by your name. Not yet.” 

“As you wish, fair Apollo.” 

Enjolras groans at the nickname. It doesn’t seem that it will be going anywhere anytime soon. 

Their promenade is not their final encounter. Grantaire invites Enjolras to be his guest at a picnic. Marius and Cosette don’t attend together, but the Baron notices Enjolras’ lunch companion, and then Marius and Cosette are permitted to promenade in the park together. 

“So, how go your attempts to speak before the House of Lords?” Grantaire asks. They have spoken several times privately, before this first public outing, walking in Enjolras’ grounds, and Grantaire’s. In that time, they have argued, mostly, but also learned about each other. Well - Grantaire has learned more about Enjolras than Enjolras has learned about Grantaire. For someone who talks incessantly, Grantaire seems to say very little. 

“Not well,” Enjolras scowls. “No one will take me seriously.” 

“Hardly a surprise,” Grantaire points out. 

“They are meant to represent the people, but they represent only those in the highest ranks,” Enjolras rants. “I am of the upper class, and even I cannot be seen by them - how can they claim to represent anyone but themselves and their own interests, when the public at large can have no hope of ever see them, let alone speak with them!”

“Why should they? It isn’t in anyone’s nature to do anything not in their own interest.” Grantaire shrugs. 

“We live in a society which places the utmost importance upon honour - should it not be enough that, having sworn an oath, it would be the honourable thing to do, to truly represent the people?”

“But they don’t represent the people, they represent the ruling class,” Grantaire points out. 

“They’re meant to be representatives from the land they are given to govern,” Enjolras argues. 

“That is naive,” Grantaire says. 

“You are impossible,” Enjolras mutters. 

  
  


They are next together at a ball. Enjolras turns down Grantaire’s first two requests for a dance before he finally agrees with a smile that is almost playful. Grantaire’s delight is obvious. 

Grantaire is an excellent dancer. Enjolras can dance, of course, it is a vital skill for someone in society, but he doesn’t excel at it; he is stiff, awkward. Grantaire, though.. Grantaire is a vision when he dances. 

“You are stiff as a board, fair Apollo. Relax a little.” Grantaire spins Enjolras expertly. 

“Easy for you to say,” Enjolras grumbles, but he is smiling - and maybe even blushing a little. 

“Dancing is one of the few things in life which is not difficult at all,” Grantaire disagrees. “You just think too much. Dancing requires simply letting yourself feel.” 

“Thinking is what I  _ do _ , your grace.” 

“You still won’t use my name?”

“Not yet.” 

  
  


The next time they are seen in public together, it is for a walk through town. They visit a coffeehouse, and converse for hours. 

“The arts are what make life worth living - it is good that the prince regent patronizes them. Without art, what are we?” Grantaire argues. 

“Patronage of the arts is all well and good, but it is at the expense of a people, most of whom will never reap the benefits themselves. The arts, the theatres being built, most of the people paying the taxes to pay for them will never benefit themselves,” Enjolras frowns. 

“Then we shouldn’t have the arts at all?”

“That isn’t what I’m saying; only that, if so much money is to go to the arts, and to refurbishing these ancient buildings, that they should be made accessible to the people too, and that perhaps some of that money might go toward narrowing the divide of wealth, supporting the very people who pay those taxes. The prince regent should look to Versailles as a warning of what might happen if that opulence at the expense of the poor continues.” 

“You come dangerously close to treason, Apollo.” 

“My name is Enjolras.” 

“And mine is Grantaire, but you will not use it,” Grantaire grins. 

  
  


Enjolras will not admit it, but as he prepares for the theatre, he is looking forward to his next verbal sparring match with Grantaire. He had been prepared to dislike him, and he feels he probably still should dislike him - Grantaire’s opinions often run directly opposite to his own. But Enjolras has also seen Grantaire change his side on the same argument at the drop of the hat, and argued just as well for either side, and so he has come to the conclusion that Grantaire simply enjoys arguing. 

Enjolras enjoys a good argument just as much, of course. He begrudgingly admits they are, at least, well matched in that. He is determined to discover Grantaire’s genuine opinions, but is frustrated to no end by his inability to discern the truth of any matter where Grantaire is concerned. He has decided that Grantaire cannot be entirely terrible - there is his initial concern for Enjolras’ willingness - and not only willingness, but interest - in accepting Grantaire’s early attentions, after all, which shows a strength of character. And he has seen Grantaire giving coin to people on the street in town, and he always tips well. These are all good signs, as far as Enjolras is concerned. Of course, it does not matter - when Cosette secures her courtship with Marius, all of this will end - but he thinks perhaps he can at least retain the duke’s friendship. Surely Enjolras cannot want anything more - he has never had any interest in marrying before. 

He knows their outings have gained attention, at any rate. Apparently, this is the longest Grantaire has remained faithful to his attentions to another. Enjolras chooses not to read into it. People treat them differently, now, the Fauchelevant family. The Baron has noticed too - he has not yet given his blessing, but he greets them when their paths cross, and Marius has said in a letter that his grandfather may be considering giving his blessing. The plot is working. 

Enjolras finishes dressing, makes sure his hair is tamed, and takes the carriage to the theatre. Combeferre is not far behind, of course - he has chaperoned all of their outings from a respectful distance. Enjolras thinks he catches Combeferre looking oddly at the stage - at the lead actor, perhaps? - and wonders if there is perhaps something else happening, but Combeferre remains present, if distracted. 

Grantaire presents Enjolras with a bouquet of wildflowers upon his arrival. He wonders if Grantaire picked them himself; they are small, and hardly professionally arranged. Enjolras thinks they’re lovely, and he tucks the little bundle neatly into his breast pocket. Grantaire seems pleased by that. 

  
  


There is a ball fast approaching. The Fauchelevant house is a hustle of activity as they all prepare. Cosette has lost a ribbon; Combeferre is distracted, again; Enjolras cannot find the waistcoat which Grantaire complimented last week. 

“Here!” Cosette is bent over a settee, searching the cushions, and she emerges with the ribbon in hand. She ties it in her hair, and apparently is finished, because she is then able to dedicate herself to helping Enjolras track down his waistcoat. 

“Thank you for being so dedicated to this courtship with the duke,” she says as she helps. “I know it cannot be easy for you.” 

“He is less bothersome than I initially believed,” Enjolras admits. “In fact, I rather hope we can remain friends, when all is said and done.” 

“Only friends?” Cosette inquires slyly. “An awful lot of trouble, to track down a specific waistcoat for someone who is only a friend. If your tailor friend, Feuilly, were to compliment a jacket, would you always wear it to see him?”

“Cosette,” Enjolras protests. “It’s truly not like that. It is - well -” The truth is that he likes to see Grantaire smile, and Grantaire does smile when Enjolras remembers and acts on some little thing he has said in passing, like he is surprised and delighted each time to discover that Enjolras listens to his ramblings. 

“It is what, brother dearest?” Cosette teases. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters, and his blushing betrays him. 

“Can it be you are falling for the duke?” Cosette asks, delighted. 

“No,” Enjolras scowls at her, and blushes harder. “Absolutely not.” 

“I think you are.” 

“You are mistaken.” 

“Oh! Here it is,” she holds up the waistcoat. 

Enjolras snatches it from her. “Just focus on your Pontmercy,” he says, and finishes getting dressed. 

  
  


The ball itself is lavish. Enjolras’ eyes hone in on Grantaire, who is standing, conveniently, with Marius. Cosette and Enjolras exchange a glance. Cosette would clearly like to go to Marius right away; Enjolras prefers to let Grantaire come to him. It is the chase Grantaire enjoys, after all - or so Enjolras has to assume. He cannot risk Grantaire growing bored of him too soon. 

It is a moot point, at any rate; Grantaire descends on the Fauchelevant twins, Marius in his shadow, before they can reach a decision. 

“I suppose if I ask you to dance, fair Apollo, you will send me away unsatisfied,” Grantaire says.

“You cannot know if you do not ask, your grace,” Enjolras replies. 

“You drive a hard bargain. Very well then - would you spare me a spot on your dance card this evening?” Grantaire asks. 

“I might,” Enjolras allows. “A gentleman might offer me a drink first.”

“I have not seen you drink before,” Grantaire observes. 

“I only said a gentleman might offer.” 

“And am I such a gentleman?” 

“That remains to be seen,” Enjolras says, lofty, though he is smiling through it, and genuinely. 

“May I offer you a drink, then?”

“Only if you will take a drink with me,” Enjolras agrees. 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “So this adonis does indulge?”

“On a rare occasion,” Enjolras admits. “Perhaps I am feeling indulgent tonight.” 

“Let me fetch us both drinks then,” Grantaire agrees. 

He leaves, and Marius stares at Cosette, blushing red just at the idea of speaking with her. 

“Will you dance with me?” Cosette asks him, to end everyone’s misery. 

“It would be my honour, Miss Cosette,” Marius agrees. 

Grantaire returns with drinks, an imported champagne of some sort. Enjolras doesn’t really care for it, but he had asked for this, so he does his best to drink it. 

“You really needn’t,” Grantaire says, when Enjolras grimaces for a third time. “Though I cannot fathom why you would ask for a drink you cannot stand. Nor can I understand how you cannot stand it - this is a fine vintage indeed.” 

“I simply haven’t acquired the taste for it, I suppose,” Enjolras admits. He lets Grantaire take his glass, and watches Grantaire drink it down in one. 

“More for me, then.” 

“So, that dance?” Grantaire asks, when their drinks are done. 

“Hm,” Enjolras pretends to consider it. “I suppose I could allow a single dance.” 

A single dance turns into two, and then three. They walk in the garden to get some air, after the third, and to allow Enjolras some rest, and then they return for a fourth. Four dances, Enjolras knows, may near as well be an engagement - to dance with the same man four times, and then to dance with no other, sends a very clear message. The two spend the ball glued to one another’s sides regardless, alternating between dancing and conversation, and often attempting to converse during dances, too. Enjolras thinks he has never had quite so much fun at a ball before. 

The night is turning to early morning. The stars are out, and it is a clear and beautiful night. They find themselves in the garden once more, sitting on a bench. They are without a chaperone, which is quite a risk in and of itself, but Enjolras finds himself enjoying a truly private moment with Grantaire. 

“This night has been..” Enjolras says softly, breaking the rare silence between them. 

“It has, hasn’t it?” Grantaire looks at Enjolras, something soft in his eyes. He reaches out, and their hands brush against each other. 

Enjolras lets their pinkies cross, and he smiles at Grantaire. “I am glad, Grantaire, that you called on me, after that first ball.” 

“Why, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, something like wonder in his eyes. “You’ve used my name.” 

“I suppose I have.” 

The ball ends too soon, and the young couples go their separate ways. Cosette talks her brothers’ ears off about Marius; Enjolras is unusually silent; Combeferre misses Courfeyrac dearly. 

  
  
  


Morning comes. Grantaire calls on Enjolras; he is bearing a bouquet of sunflowers to give him. Enjolras blushes as he accepts them, and puts them in water himself. Grantaire, though, is not their only caller - Baron Gillenormand Pontmercy deigns to grace their doorstep that day. 

“Mr. Fauchelevant,” he addresses Combeferre. “I cannot stay long, but I have come to right a wrong.” 

Oh, has he, Combeferre thinks sourly. He says nothing of the sort though, and smiles politely instead. “Oh? By all means.” 

“My grandson remains stubbornly fixed on your sister, Miss Cosette,” he says. “I have given the subject much thought, and have come to the conclusion that I may have been overhasty in my dismissal of her, and of your family. It seems you are of better stock than I had first realized.” He doesn’t apologize, but this is as near one as Combeferre supposes he can expect, backhanded though it is. 

“I am glad to hear it,” Combeferre says.

“In light of this, I have decided to give my blessing. Not for them to marry - not yet. I do not want to be overhasty twice,” he clarifies. “But they may court, for now.” 

Combeferre knows Marius wouldn’t be permitted to openly court someone he had no chance of ever marrying, so Combeferre takes this for what it is - Pontmercy is waiting to be more sure of Enjolras’ engagement to the duke to allow a wedding, but he is testing the waters with courtship for now. 

Combeferre nods. “I am certain my sister will be pleased to hear of your change in heart, sir,” he says. 

“I suspect she will,” he agrees. “Please pass on my regards to the Duke.” 

“Of course,” Combeferre agrees. 

“Very well then. I have taken enough of your time, I believe.” 

“Have a very pleasant day, Baron Pontmercy,” Combeferre says, and sees him to the door himself. “Ugh,” he mutters when the man is out of hearing range. “Well, at least Cosette’s mad plan is working.” His heart is sinking, though, because he knows, in that moment, what decision he must pass on to Courfeyrac. And it will break his own heart to do it. 


	7. Working title: Combeferre is an idiot, but his family is happy at least?

Combeferre stands on the street and stares at the door. Distantly, he thinks this may be the last time he walks through it. He steels himself, pulls his hands from his pockets to hold them still at his sides, sets his shoulders straight, holds his head up. He knocks. 

Courfeyrac answers the door. He looks surprised to see Combeferre; Combeferre can’t fault him for it. The last time he was here, Courfeyrac told him to go until he made a decision. It’s been weeks, and he hasn’t been back. 

It hasn’t been an easy decision to make. 

“Come in.” Courfeyrac steps back to let Combeferre in. It’s uncomfortable - Courfeyrac is holding himself at arm’s length, where he is usually so affectionate. Combeferre is stiff and cold, where he usually feels safe enough to relax. 

“Thank you.” Combeferre steps across the threshold, and takes in the apartment once more. It’s messy, cluttered, lived-in. Clearly a home, one that isn’t kept tidy by serving staff. He’ll miss it. 

“Tea?” Courfeyrac offers. 

“Thank you, but no. I - cannot stay long,” Combeferre declines. 

Courfeyrac nods, like he expected it. He doesn’t say anything to prod Combeferre along; he’s going to make Combeferre work for this. 

Combeferre takes a deep breath. He wants to say that he loves Courfeyrac, that he doesn’t want to let him go. He wants to say he’ll miss him, and he’ll miss this place, and he’ll miss his smile. He cannot make this harder on Courfeyrac, though, and he cannot ask Courfeyrac to wait for him forever. 

“When we last spoke, you told me what I desperately needed to hear,” he says eventually. “You deserve the world, and more than that, you deserve someone who can promise to always put you first. I have realized that I cannot be what you deserve.” He is unflinching - he pushes down any emotions he feels and tries to simply say what needs to be said. He wonders if he comes off as cold. “For that, I apologize.” He doesn’t say that he wishes he could be, that he desperately wants to be, everything Courfeyrac deserves. He cannot. 

“Is this your decision, then?” Courfeyrac asks, voice wooden. 

“It is,” Combeferre replies. “Please be assured you will still be well taken care of. Your allowance-” 

“Keep your fucking money,” Courfeyrac snaps. “You bastard, I don’t want your money.” Courfeyrac glares at Combeferre. 

Combeferre flounders. “I am truly sorry, Courfeyrac -” 

“Get out,” Courfeyrac says. He turns - he cannot even look at Combeferre. “Go. I don’t want to see you. Leave, if you’re leaving.” 

Combeferre wants to scream. Instead, he nods, and he walks out the door. He leaves his heart behind. 

  
  
  


Combeferre has no time to feel sorry for himself. That very same afternoon, Marius comes to call, bearing an extravagant display of flowers and requesting Cosette’s company on a promenade. Combeferre accompanies them, but keeps a generous distance. This, he reminds himself, is what he has done all of this for - so that Cosette and Marius may court. He shouldn’t feel sour at listening to them whisper to one another, or at seeing them walk arm in arm, leaning close. It is wildly unfair to resent Cosette and Marius for their happiness, only because he has so recently lost his own - through his own doing, no less. 

He should be pleased for them. He really does try his best. 

The next day, Grantaire calls around noon. It is the third day in a row he has come, and each time he has borne flowers - each day since the last ball, he has come with flowers. Combeferre notices how flustered Enjolras is each time, though it is no longer a surprise to see him on their step. 

“Thank you, Grantaire.” Enjolras uses Grantaire’s name often, now. 

“I live to see you smile, Enjolras.” Grantaire uses nicknames less and less. 

Combeferre thinks it’s sweet. He also thinks, quite uncharitably, that it is wasted on Enjolras, who still insists he doesn’t care for the duke and will not marry him, despite how very obvious it is that that is changing, and quickly. 

Marius arrives before the duke has even left, and he, too, has a second bouquet for Cosette. Combeferre thinks he may have enough flowers soon to convert the estate to a greenhouse. 

“Will you both accompany us?” Marius invites Grantaire and Enjolras along with himself and Cosette. Combeferre escorts both happy couples on an outing to a coffeehouse. All four of them try to include Combeferre in their conversation, but he finds it difficult to muster up the energy to participate more than half-heartedly. 

“Education reform is desperately needed; don’t you agree, Combeferre?” Enjolras tries, knowing this is a particular passion of Combeferre’s. 

“Hm,” Combeferre nods his agreement, but remains distracted. Enjolras frowns. 

Marius takes Cosette out on a little boat, later in the week, for an outing down the river. They are accompanied by servants, and so Combeferre doesn’t need to accompany them. He is grateful. He holes himself up in the library, since Enjolras is in town with his friends again, and buries himself in his work - there is much to be done in the running of an estate, and he has been neglecting his bookkeeping in favour of playing matchmaker these last months. Cosette returns, glowing from the sun and speaking of nothing but Marius for the rest of the evening. 

“Oh, it was beautiful,” she says. “We were nearly overturned, of course, when we nearly rowed straight into the nest of a particularly ornery swan, and Marius nearly swooned,” she laughs. “But we kept it back with a paddle and made a daring escape.” 

Grantaire takes Enjolras to the botanical gardens, and teaches him to draw. Enjolras returns home with pockets full of sketches, some clearly by Grantaire, most by himself. Enjolras’ drawing has never been excellent, and he’s never cared for art before, but under Grantaire’s tutelage he gets better, gradually. He blushes when he recounts the way Grantaire’s hands fell over his own, guiding his pencil. Enjolras keeps to himself the way his pulse jumped when Grantaire touched him, no gloves between them. Combeferre sees Enjolras tuck each drawing neatly into a little wooden box he keeps locked with a key. 

Marius takes Cosette to the theatre. Combeferre sends Mme Fauchelevant with them; he cannot bear to go himself. Cosette complains for hours afterwards how her mother hovered far closer than Combeferre, and pleads with him not to abandon them to her mercies again. 

“You are a much better chaperone,” Cosette insists. 

“I have an estate to run, and two siblings to chaperone, too,” Combeferre says. “I cannot promise to be there for every one, especially not if both Marius and Grantaire insist of seeing you and your brother near daily.” 

Cosette pouts, but understands. 

“You’ve been odd lately,” she says. “I know you have been very busy, taking care of Enjolras and I, seeing that all of this goes smoothly. I hope you know I am very grateful. And it is finally paying off!” 

“I know, Cosette,” Combeferre assures her, voice softening. “I am sorry if I am short. I am only tired.” 

“Perhaps an early bedtime, then. But please know, I am here for you, too. You needn’t do it all on your own.” 

“Thank you.” He kisses her cheek. “I am blessed to have such a wonderful family. I don’t know what I shall do when you marry your Marius and leave me behind,” he admits. 

“None of that, now!” Cosette protests. “I am certain I shall not be leaving you behind entirely when I am married; you shall always be my brother.” 

Combeferre smiles, soft and sad. He knows she will visit, but things will change. He just hopes that both she and Enjolras wind up happy. 


	8. Working title: Combeferre gets the ass-kicking he deserves

“Right, that’s enough. It’s been two weeks of your moping, Combeferre.” Cosette and Enjolras have tracked him down to his office. 

Combeferre sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose from where they have been steadily slipping. “Cosette. Enjolras.”

“Tell us what’s wrong,” Enjolras presses. 

“You’ve spent these months dedicated to helping both of us - longer than that, really, since father died,” Cosette adds. “Let us help you. Whatever this is, I’m sure we’re better prepared to face it as a family than any of us is alone.” 

“This is a private matter,” Combeferre says. “Not one for the whole family to concern themselves with.” 

“Be that as it may, you are still our brother,” Enjolras argues. “Let us help. Please; even mother worries about you.” 

If Mme Fauchelevant is worried, then he’s really in trouble. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then resigns himself to his siblings’ meddling. “I.. had a lover. For some time, actually. But matters have become complicated, and - I am simply missing him, I suppose,” he says eventually. 

“You had a  _ lover _ ?” Cosette asks, wide-eyed. “And you didn’t tell us?”

“It began at an inopportune time,” he admits, rubbing his forehead. “And it was - not a public courtship. Not much of a courtship at all, really,” he admits. In fact, it had begun only days after the death of their father, the day before the funeral in fact. Combeferre had been buckling under the pressure, and he had sought comfort with his friend, and - well, and comfort had turned to something rather more. 

“Who is he, this man?” Enjolras asks, brow furrowed. 

“His name is Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says. 

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Enjolras presses. 

“You would not. He is an actor,” Combeferre admits, and he winces in anticipation of the reaction which is sure to follow. 

“An actor,” Enjolras repeats. He knows Combeferre too well; he is turning Combeferre’s own trick against him, saying very little and somehow managing to still prod him for more. 

“We had been friends - acquaintances, really - for some time,” he says. “Shortly before the funeral, our friendship turned to more. I.. sought comfort with him, and with time, I think we both fell quite badly in love.” He looks away from them both, not wanting to see their judgement. Not for Courfeyrac’s station, of course, but for his rather abominable treatment of Courfeyrac. 

“You kept him secret,” Enjolras accuses. 

“At the beginning, it would have been - we were in mourning, Enjolras. It’s quite natural to seek comfort in another’s arms, but I couldn’t stand the thought of even further scrutiny at that time.” Combeferre’s voice is sharp. “Courfeyrac understood. He agreed; he was still in auditions. Anything public would have hurt us both. In time, he found a place in a company, and our mourning ended. I thought - I planned to do something grand,” Combeferre admits. “I had thought - I had hoped you would meet him, soon, during the season. That we might get through those first few weeks, let us settle into our place in society again, and then I would - I don’t know, perhaps I would have brought him to a ball, danced with him in public. But..” 

“But I met Marius,” Cosette realizes, a hand going to her mouth. 

“I am responsible for your well-being,” Combeferre says, gathering himself again. “I cannot be the reason your future with Marius is jeopardized.” 

“You’re a coward,” Enjolras interjects, looking livid. “All this talk of duty and responsibility, it is a mask you hide behind. None of us are free of our society’s influence, but you must see how abominably you have treated this Courfeyrac. Why - because he is not of the gentility? Because it would impact our standing? Because people will talk?”

“Because it will impact you!” Combeferre finally raises his voice. “I don’t care what people say about me, but I do care what they say about you - both of you. I would have given my all the wealth and standing I have to be with him, but I do not have the luxury of acting in my own interests - my actions reach far further. I am a coward, maybe,” he agrees. “I have treated Courfeyrac poorly, certainly. But -” He crumples again. “What choice do I have? He deserves better than to be kept waiting another year, for Cosette to be safely married.” 

“He also deserves better than to have his heart broken without cause. Combeferre, rest assured in my ability to get what I want,” Cosette insists. “With or without the Baron’s permission, Marius and I will be together - there is always Gretna’s Green, should it come to that.” 

“Cosette, no,” Combeferre protests. “You have always wanted a proper wedding.” 

“Not at the cost of your own happy future, Combeferre!” Her hands on her hips, she looks very much like a woman determined to have her way. “No, I won’t have you making this sacrifice on my account. If it is a commitment your Courfeyrac wants, go back and grovel and make your commitments. Marius and I will find a way.” 

Combeferre sighs, still not convinced. 

“You have Cosette’s blessing; you can no longer hide behind excuses for her future,” Enjolras says, and the judgement in his tone is clear. “If you do nothing, you prove me right. I do not want that. I know you are better than this.” 

Combeferre is quiet for a while, and then he nods. “Very well. I will see if he will speak to me. But not now, and not today. Now, off with you both - unless either of you wants a lesson in economics right now.” 

Enjolras and Cosette retreat to the sitting room. They have a lot to discuss. 

“I can’t believe him!” Enjolras starts ranting almost immediately. 

“I can,” Cosette says softly. “Enjolras, you’ve been very hard on him.” 

“He deserves it!”

“He’s under a lot of pressure, and - well, he held this whole family together, this past year, and none of us were in any shape to support him,” Cosette says. “Mother is always on him about duty, and you know he’d do anything for us, that hasn’t changed.”

Enjolras sighs, and slumps in his seat. “I know,” he admits. “That doesn’t make it right, though.” 

“Of course not,” Cosette scowls. “I can’t believe he treated someone he loves like that. It’s not like him at all - except for it is, I suppose; he’s never made a secret of the fact that you and I come first for him. It’s just never been quite so serious, I suppose, as to impact his relationship with others for our sake. For my sake, really.” 

“If Courfeyrac takes him back - what do you suppose will happen?” Enjolras asks. 

“I don’t know,” Cosette admits. “It would be a scandal, of course. I imagine we would brush it off eventually, though. Some new bit of gossip would come out, and it would be old news. I doubt it would ever fade completely, that scandal, of course - people will always talk. Courfeyrac probably won’t be made very welcome by most, whispers will always follow the both of them, but - well, if I’m married already, to Marius, and you’re either married to the duke-”

“I’m not marrying Grantaire, Cosette!” Enjolras protests, but it’s half-hearted. 

“Sure you’re not. Anyway, if I’”m married to Marius, and you either have the duke, or you decide to just remain a bachelor, reputation won’t matter half as much to him, I suspect,” Cosette says. “We’d be untouchable, really. He could finally do as he pleases.” 

“Will you really go to Gretna’s Green?” Enjolras asks, anxious. 

“If I must,” she shrugs. “Yes, I want a proper wedding. But marrying Marius at all is more important than that. I’m still not sure Combeferre’s brewing scandal will be enough to prevent a wedding, anyways, though.” 

“No? You have that much faith in Grantaire’s reputation?” Enjolras asks dubiously. 

“A duke is second only to royalty, Enjolras. I suspect that Baron Pontmercy’s desire to claim some relation to a duke will outweigh his distaste for our brother’s choice in life partner.” Cosette sounds confident. “I really am grateful, Enjolras. I know you were hesitant, at first.”

“He’s - I like him a lot better than I thought I would,” Enjolras admits. “I’m just glad it’s working, and Pontmercy is letting Marius court you.”

Neither notices the man standing nearby. He is holding wildflowers; his fist clenches around the stems, and he turns on his heel and leaves without a word. 


	9. Working title: uh-oh

Today, several families of the ton are attending the theatre together. Included are Grantaire and Marius, who have naturally asked Enjolras and Cosette along. Combeferre had arranged for Mme Fauchelevant to accompany them in his stead, but when the day arrives, he dresses, and decides that today is the day he will work up enough nerve to see Courfeyrac. His siblings have knocked some sense into him, though he is worried about Cosette even now. 

Grantaire and Marius are both in the sitting room together; there is an odd look on Grantaire’s face, but Combeferre doesn’t read anything into it. Grantaire is often in an odd mood, after all. “I hope neither of you have been left waiting too long,” he greets them both warmly. “Enjolras and Cosette will be with us shortly.” 

“Oh, excellent!” Marius looks eager to see her, despite having called only two days prior. “Thank you, Mr. Fauchelevant.” 

Grantaire says nothing, only nods. 

Enjolras and Cosette enter the room together. The twins are as radiant as ever, dressed in their signature red, for Enjolras, and blue, for Cosette. 

“Miss Cosette,” Marius jumps to his feet in a tangle of limbs to greet her, and Cosette smiles. 

“Mr. Marius.” 

Marius kisses the back of her gloved hand, and Cosette makes a curtsy. 

Enjolras, meanwhile, locks eyes with Grantaire. Grantaire has a carefully neutral look on his face now, which is odd, and he makes none of his typically effusive greetings. 

“Enjolras,” he says, a nod his only additional greeting. 

Enjolras frowns, taken aback, but he approaches Grantaire anyway. “Grantaire. I am pleased to see you.” 

“I imagine so,” Grantaire says. 

Before Enjolras can puzzle out that bizarre response, the footman enters. “The carriage is ready, sirs and ma’am,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras addresses him. “Shall we?”

Combeferre follows the couples into the carriage. He sits with his siblings on one side, and their guests sit on the other. Marius chatters away for most of the ride; it’s soothing to everyone there, somehow. It gives Combeferre a distraction from the visit he must soon make to Courfeyrac; it distracts Enjolras from Grantaire’s oddness. 

They arrive, and find their box. Combeferre sits off to one side, as usual. The play itself is.. Well, of course it is still excellent, and he can tell that Courfeyrac is giving it his all, but there is something manic about the performance. He wonders if Courfeyrac is desperate for a distraction, too. He aches at the thought of having hurt him so badly. 

The show ends both after an eternity, and far too soon. “Wait here,” he tells Cosette and Enjolras. “I have some business to attend to.” 

They agree, a knowing look in both their eyes, and Combeferre leaves them to go backstage once more. 

When Combeferre is gone, Enjolras turns to Grantaire, frowning. “Is something the matter?” he asks. “You have been.. Not yourself today.” 

The look Grantaire turns on Enjolras makes him freeze in place. “Am I not myself?” he asks, and his tone is cold. “Perhaps it is simply that I see things more clearly now - that I see you more clearly.” 

“I have no idea what you -” 

“Haven’t you?” Grantaire accuses. He jabs a finger at Enjolras’ chest. 

“Why are you behaving this way?” Enjolras asks, bewildered. 

  
  


Combeferre knocks on a familiar door. 

“One moment,” he hears a familiar voice call back. The door opens, and Courfeyrac appears. Courfeyrac’s face hardens, and the door begins to shut.

“Wait - please.” Combeferre doesn’t prevent the door from closing, but he does speak quickly, hoping Courfeyrac will hear him out. “Courfeyrac, I-” 

“I thought I told you I don’t want to see you,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “What do you want, sir?”

Combeferre’s heart sinks. “I have missed you,” he says, desperate. “I -” 

“I’ve changed my mind. Don’t speak,” Courfeyrac says. He grips the front of Combeferre’s shirt, and pulls him inside. “If you say a word, I’ll send you away.” 

Combeferre nods, silent, and Courfeyrac kisses him. 

  
  


“Why am I behaving this way?” Grantaire repeats Enjolras’ question back to him. “I have already told you; I see you clearly now.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Do you deny it then?” Grantaire demands. 

“How can I, when you will not tell me what I am accused of!” Enjolras does his best to keep his voice low. It is a struggle. 

“Very well, you wish me to say it? I’ll say it plain, then. You, sir, are a liar, and no better than those you ridiculed for throwing themselves at my feet, as you put it. No, they at least have the decency to be upfront; you think me flat, so easily taken in, and nearly you had me, too, but I see you,  _ Apollo _ , for what you are - no, not Apollo; you are Theseus and myself Ariadne. I provide the sword you need to defeat a baron, and when it is done, you shall abandon me. You are false,” Grantaire says, teeth bared. “And you nearly had me fooled. Well, whore yourself out to another man. I am a fool for you, but I will not bear this.” 

Grantaire stands, and his chair makes an awful, scraping sound across the floor. Enjolras is frozen in place, hands over his mouth, tears in his eyes. Grantaire doesn’t look back as he leaves. 

Enjolras crumples in his seat, and fights a sob. It hurts. 

  
  


There is a whirlwind of lips and hands, both of them still half-dressed. Courfeyrac has Combeferre pinned to the wall, and Combeferre is desperately trying to stay silent, because Courfeyrac seemed to mean it when he threatened to throw Combeferre out again. And then it is over. Courfeyrac hands Combeferre his jacket and walks him to the door. “This was a mistake,” he says. “A fun mistake, of course, but one we cannot repeat. Please go.” 

And then the door is slammed in Combeferre’s face again. 

“Fuck,” Combeferre mutters, staring at the closed door. 

There is no time to dwell on his mistakes; he has to return to Enjolras and Cosette. He has left them waiting too long already. The scene he returns to is not the one he expected. 

Enjolras is sitting, stone-still, in his seat, fists clenched at his side, even paler than usual. Cosette is at his side, a hand on his shoulder, obviously concerned. Marius is gone, and Grantaire too. 

“What happened?” Combeferre asks. 

“I think I really might have loved him,” Enjolras whispers, and then his stony expression cracks, and he stands, falling into Combeferre’s arms with a sob. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am... so sorry, my loves


	10. Working title: #Awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the phrase crocodile tears came into usage in the 14th century in English.

Combeferre is fuming. He has sent Mme Fauchelevant away; she has been the opposite of a help, berating Enjolras when he is so upset. He is nearly ready to find his pistols; were he not a pacifist, he would be inclined to challenge Grantaire for what he said. Being arrested or killed in a duel will not, however, help his brother, so he does his best to suppress that urge. Cosette, of course, has never once been a pacifist, and she doesn’t hesitate to propose what Combeferre will not. 

“I will duel him myself,” she says, jaw clenched. 

“You will do no such thing,” Combeferre says firmly. “Cosette.” He grips her shoulder to be sure she is paying attention. “You will not be duelling anyone. No one is challenging anyone. If anyone deserves to face your wrath, of course, it is him, but you will do your brother no good arrested or shot. Do you hear me?”

Cosette scowls, but nods. “Yes, Combeferre,” she says, clearly displeased. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says more gently, crouching in front of the chair Enjolras is curled up on, knees to his chest, head bowed. 

Enjolras looks up; there is no hiding the tears streaking down his face. Combeferre reaches out, and Enjolras leans in, wrapped up in Combeferre’s arms. They stay that way for a while, before the footman knocks and enters. 

“Mr. Fauchelevant,” he addresses Combeferre. “A Baron Pontmercy to see you.” 

“Fucking - yes. Alright.” Combeferre stands. Of course that vulture of a man couldn’t wait a single day before coming to make his wrath known. 

“I will stay with Enjolras,” Cosette says, and Combeferre nods, grateful. 

“Baron Pontmercy.” Combeferre greets the man standing in his sitting room with only the thinnest veneer of civility. 

“Mr. Fauchelevant,” the baron greets him in turn. “I hope your young Mr. Enjolras is recovering swiftly.” 

“Can I help you, sir?” Combeferre asks. He has no patience for this today. 

“To business, then. Is it true, that Mr. Enjolras is no longer courting with the Duke of Grafton?”

“That is no one’s business outside of this family,” Combeferre says firmly. 

“If I am not mistaken, you hope to see your family become part of mine,” Gillenormand says pointedly. 

“And yet, Cosette is not your family yet,” Combeferre says coolly. 

“She may never be, if the rumours are true,” Gillenormand says. 

“I shall take that into consideration,” Combeferre, cool tone turning downright chilly. “I am disappointed to learn that your support is based so solely on the social status you might gain by it - one might think someone so quick to accuse another of social climbing would be less inclined to it himself.” 

With that, Combeferre turns to leave. “I am certain you can find the door, sir.” 

It feels good. He just hopes he doesn’t regret losing his temper. 

Combeferre’s news of Baron Pontmercy’s visit is about as welcome as a rat in the chef’s kitchen. 

“I’m nearly ready to simply go to Gretna’s Green and have done with it,” Cosette huffs. “That man and his ridiculous sentiments have hurt our family quite enough.” 

“You have dreamt of your wedding since you were a child,” Enjolras shakes his head. “No, don’t elope. I may yet be able to fix it.” He has that stubborn set to his jaw that tells both Cosette and Combeferre that he won’t be swayed. 

Combeferre and Cosette frown in unison. Their sibling resemblance is subtler than that between Cosette and Enjolras, but they share this expression perfectly. 

“Fix it? Enjolras, the things he said to you were horrible,” Combeferre protests. 

“And yet the core accusation was true. He needn’t have been so cruel about it, but - I do think he cared for me, and I can only imagine that learning the truth would have hurt him. He does not know that things have changed - whatever he learned, however he learned it, that my feelings have - well, have become true - clearly has not reached his ears.” Enjolras stands, and smoothes his clothing. “I cannot go today. I must take some time, and I am certain that he will need some space to cool his temper. But I hope that I might have the chance to speak with him soon, and see some of the damage undone.” 

Cosette still looks unhappy, but Combeferre nods. He knows there is no stopping Enjolras once he gets an idea in his head. 

Enjolras lets three days pass. The Fauchelevants go about their business as usual, not wanting to lend power to any of the whispers, and they remain as private as ever. On the fourth day, though, Enjolras goes alone to the Grafton House in London. Combeferre wanted to chaperone, but Enjolras had insisted it was important he do this alone. Enjolras takes a deep breath to steady himself, and knocks thrice on the door. 

A footman answers, and takes Enjolras to the sitting room. He doesn’t have to wait long, but it’s not Grantaire who returns. 

“His grace is very busy, and cannot see you.” A man - Grantaire’s manservant, Enjolras thinks - arrives. 

“Please. I understand that he does not wish to see me, but it is very important. Trust I would not have come otherwise.” Enjolras puts aside his pride and pleads. 

The servant is unmoved. “He will not see you, sir.” 

Enjolras bites his lip. “Tell him that if he sends me away once more, I will go, and he will see nor hear no more from me. But tell him also that I am sorry, and that he doesn’t have the full of it, and that I should at least like the chance to explain myself.” 

The servant clearly doesn’t want to take any sort of message, but with the opportunity to have Enjolras go without any more fuss, he agrees, and disappears again. 

This time, the wait is longer. Enjolras is uncertain how much time passes; his heart is racing and he feels vaguely ill, and time could be moving at any speed at all when he is in this state. 

It is either moments or hours later, that Grantaire himself comes down the stairs. He doesn’t look well, and guilt twists Enjolras’ gut. Grantaire has bags under his eyes, and his hair and clothes are dishevelled. 

“Grantai - er, your grace.” Enjolras doubts he is still on first name terms with Grantaire. 

Apparently, his assumption was the wrong one, because Grantaire’s face falls flat, and his tone is scornful. “Ah, so we have returned to titles, then, Theseus.” 

“I don’t want to presume,” Enjolras says, feeling more uncertain than he ever has in his life. “I - Grantaire. Will you hear me out?”

“I have come, have I not?” Grantaire spreads his arms and seats himself in a chair. 

“Yes.” Enjolras is good at speaking. He always has been. But now, words leave him, and all his practiced speeches fall away. He has thought for hours upon hours of what he would like to say to Grantaire, and now he doesn’t know where to begin. 

Grantaire grows impatient. “Speak then, if you’re going to speak, or get out,” he snaps. 

“Apologies. I - well, that seems perhaps the best place to start. Grantaire, I am sorry. I do not know what you heard, or how you came by the information, but - it is true, that when we first began, it was for my sister’s sake.” Enjolras swallows. “I have come to know you better since. Where once you grated on my nerves, you began to soothe them. Irritation at your argumentation turned to affection. I have come to care for you - you are a dear friend, or, well. You were.” Enjolras twists his hands in front of him. “My sister is the light of my life. I would do anything for her. I did not mean to hurt you - truly, in the beginning, I did not think you were serious in your attentions, and so I saw no harm in the scheme. I should have called it off the moment I knew I had been wrong, but I enjoyed your company too much, and I was selfish. So I am sorry for my actions, and I am sorry you are hurt.” 

“You claim your feelings changed?” Grantaire scoffs. 

“I do,” Enjolras says. 

“Do you love me then? Do you think me a fool?” Grantaire stands. “You are a performer, Enjolras, and a skilled one at that, but I will not be taken in twice. You may cease your crocodile tears.” 

Enjolras straightens. “My family is everything to me,” he says. His distress is not false, but he knows Grantaire will not be convinced, so he changes tack. “Surely there is someone you would do anything for. My sister is in love, and her Marius feels the same. I know Marius is your friend, and therefore you must be familiar with the Baron. If Marius is your friend, and you will not trust or forgive me, consider what this means for him. Marius is a romantic, just as Cosette. He would be broken-hearted. I understand you will not have me back. I am setting aside what little pride I have left to ask you to resume the ruse of it with me - if not for the sake of my own family, for the sake of your friend.” 

Enjolras has no way of knowing this, but when Grantaire went to Marius to sigh over a broken heart, Marius had been alarmed first for his future with Cosette. Grantaire cannot begrudge his friend - Marius can be both distractible and alarmingly single-minded, often both at once. At the time, his pride had forbidden it, but now, Grantaire finds himself considering - if resentfully - the possibility. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near Enjolras, but it could be a short-lived thing. He is certain that if he made an offer to Enjolras, one they both knew was false, the Baron would give his blessing, seeing the deed as all but done. A few weeks to plan and perform the wedding, and then Grantaire could be gone again from London, and nurse his broken heart elsewhere. It would be a terrible thing to do - Grantaire has been hurt quite enough - but he has always been soft for his friends, and even though this particular sacrifice grates on him, he finds himself unable to say no. 

“Fine,” Grantaire says, after an uncomfortably long silence. 

“Please, won’t you consider - wait. What?” Enjolras begins, and then registers Grantaire’s response properly. 

“I will keep up this ruse. Not for your sake - when it is done, I will leave, and be happy not to see you again. But for the sake of my friend, I will endure you.” 

Enjolras flinches, but nods. 

“We will be quick. I assume your brother is also in on the falsehood?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says quietly. 

“Good. Then you may tell him I will make an offer - something appropriately dramatic - and you will accept. Marius will propose to Cosette, they will marry, and then we shall call off our own engagement and I will leave London well and truly behind me.” Grantaire is short, business-like in his approach. 

“As you wish,” Enjolras agrees. “Thank you, Grantaire.” 

“Do not thank me,” Grantaire snaps. “I shall call on you tomorrow.” 

Enjolras nods, and takes this for the dismissal it is. He finds the door himself. 

  
  


Grantaire calls on Enjolras as promised, with his most elaborate bouquet yet. Combeferre glares at him, and Grantaire wonders what nerve the man can have, to act as if he is the one who has been wronged. Grantaire takes Enjolras for a promenade, arm in arm. Combeferre chaperones, a few feet behind. Grantaire and Enjolras exchange perhaps five words the whole time, but the strategy pays off; Gillenormand sees them on his drive back from his day’s business. 

The ball, two days later, is when Enjolras knows Grantaire means to propose. His stomach ties itself into knots as he dresses, wearing his nicest things. 

“Are you sure about this?” Cosette asks softly. “I can see the toll it is taking.” 

Enjolras hasn’t been sleeping well. He feels guilty, and conflicted, and and it’s awful, going on these outings with Grantaire and knowing things have been entirely ruined between them. He rubs his face, and reaches for some of Cosette’s rouge, using just enough to hide how pale he is, and draw attention away from the darkness under his eyes. 

“I am certain. It is only for a little longer, anyhow,” Enjolras assures her. 

Cosette is unconvinced, but she lets Enjolras prepare, and puts on a gown of her own, weaving pearls into her hair. When they are both ready, Combeferre accompanies them to the ball. 

It is one of the final balls of the season; as a result, Enjolras is far from the only one dressed especially well tonight. Still, the Fauchelevant twins are striking, and they stand out from the crowd. Cosette wastes no time in finding Marius. By now, most of the ton know that Cosette and Marius are spoken for, and everyone suspects they will be engaged by the time the season is out, if not married. This doesn’t deter people from asking Cosette to dance, of course - she is charming enough that most people want to dance with her, whether she’s available or not. 

Enjolras remains devoid of requests, but he doesn’t mind. Cosette disappears onto the dance floor, and Enjolras keeps half an eye on Grantaire. Their eyes meet, and Grantaire is the first to look away, but he does approach. “A dance?” he asks, hand extended. Enjolras accepts his arm, and they circle around the dance floor. The dance is performed flawlessly, and Enjolras is still, even after all this time, amazed by Grantaire’s skill, but they don’t speak, and there is always just the proper amount of distance between them. Enjolras desperately wants to figure out how to bridge this gap, but Grantaire is making it clear he has no interest in trying for more than the barest politeness required to pull off their ruse, and Enjolras isn’t sure if he should push. 

They dance two more dances, and retreat to mingle and make polite conversation. Enjolras escapes for some air - he knows the proposal must be coming soon. He doesn’t know when, and he feels as if someone is standing on his chest, he is so anxious. A deep breath, and he returns to the fray. Another silent, awkward dance, performed without a flaw, and then - then it happens. 

“My dear Enjolras.” Grantaire drops to one knee. Enjolras feels faint. “I know you would skin me for asking anyone’s permission but your own, so rest assured I have not. I want - no, I need you to know that I love you. That I have from the moment I cut myself on your sharp wit, and that I have only become more sure of my feelings since. I can only hope that you can feel the same for me, and so I ask - Enjolras Fauchelevant, will you marry me?”

It’s not real, Enjolras has to remind himself, and he hopes the tears in the corner of his eyes pass as happy ones. “Yes,” he whispers, then repeats louder, for the room, “Yes, I will marry you, Grantaire.” 

The ballroom is set ablaze in whispers in an instant, and Grantaire stands. It seems to Enjolras a particularly odd moment of distance between them - even were they truly together, it would be inappropriate to kiss, but Enjolras finds himself unsure what to do now. 

“One last dance?” Grantaire requests, and Enjolras accepts. He feels Cosette and Marius watching them, and he can feel Combefere’s disapproval from across the room. 

  
  


At least, Combeferre thinks as he watches Marius approach from behind his desk, the twins’ plan is working, because here is Marius, requesting a private conversation, and he can only want one thing. 

“Mr. Fauchelevant,” Marius says. 

Combeferre wants to tell him to call him Combeferre, but perhaps not for this conversation. Once he and Cosette are engaged, perhaps. It’s always odd to be called his father’s name. “Mr. Pontmercy,” he replies. 

Marius swallows. He has to know Combeferre won’t say no, not after everything, but for whatever reason the poor boy still seems nervous. “I come with my grandfather’s blessing, but I come to request your own, before I ask Miss Cosette to marry me,” he says. “I love her very much. She is the light of my life, and I cannot imagine spending another day without her by my side. I know that I and my family have caused yours much strife, but I hope you will not hold this against me, sir.” 

Combeferre takes a deep breath. “I want Cosette to be happy. It seems that means marrying you. So I give my blessing, but remember that, as much as Cosette can certainly hold your own, I am certain that your support will be important to her. That may mean standing up to your grandfather from time to time." He knows Cosette will be able to handle Gillenormand, but he needs to know she won’t be handling him alone. 

“Of course,” Marius says, though it makes him look nervous. “Cosette means the world to me, and I know grandfather has treated her - and you - abominably. I promise to do my best, to ensure she knows I stand with her.” 

“Good.” Combeferre is satisfied. “Now, I cannot answer on her behalf; she would rightfully remove my head from my shoulders for presuming anything of the sort. So you had better go and ask her yourself.” 

“Yes, sir.” Marius grins wide, and sees himself out the office door. Combeferre stands a few moments later and follows him. 

Cosette is waiting just by the door, of course - she had been listening in, most likely. Enjolras is pretending to be less invested, sitting in an armchair in the library, but he clearly isn’t actually reading the book in his hands. 

Marius seems suddenly aware of his audience, and he blushes but is undeterred. “Miss Cosette,” he addresses her, ignoring the rest. “Would you grant me a moment alone?”

Enjolras and Combeferre leave the room. 

Marius walks up to Cosette, and takes her hands in his own. “My dear Cosette,” he says, wonder in his voice. “We have waited so long. I have the blessing of my grandfather and your brother, but the only one who’s permission truly matters is your own. I love you - with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. Just to know you makes me feel I am the most fortunate man in the world. Cosette - will you marry me?”

“Yes. Of course, yes,” Cosette beams. Her family, who had clearly been listening in, burst into the room to congratulate the new couple. 


	11. Working title: love is in the air tonight

Combeferre has been told very reliably that he knows very little about flowers, aesthetics, or frankly many of the practicalities of weddings. He has been given permission to handle the music, and otherwise his role is to pay for things. Combeferre himself is quite alright with that. The wedding preparation has him melancholy. Not only will he miss Cosette, but he finds himself thinking of Courfeyrac at the oddest of times. Cosette picks out her flowers, and Combeferre thinks Courfeyrac would like the delicate yellow ones. They visit the church, and Combeferre thinks Courfeyrac would have had a joke to say, but can’t imagine what it would have been. 

He thinks about the last time he saw Courfeyrac. He had wanted to talk, and he had failed entirely. Courfeyrac hadn’t wanted to listen, and Combeferre can’t blame him. It’s been some time, now, since Combeferre first left him - months, really. Summer is coming to a close, as is the London Season. He misses Courfeyrac; he wants to tell him about the wedding, which is due to happen in two weeks. He wants to tell him about Enjolras and Grantaire, and get his opinion - Courfeyrac has always been more adept at that sort of thing. He wants to hear about Courfeyrac’s latest play, and the drama between the ingenue and the costumer, or whoever it is that week. 

With this in mind, he decides to try once more. To really insist on talking, this time. Cosette and Marius faced every possible difficulty, and they are due to be married soon; who is to say that he should give up so easily on his chances with Courfeyrac? 

He picks daisies from his own garden. Courfeyrac has always preferred them to the elaborate, fancy bouquets. He ties them with a ribbon, and steps out the door. 

When he arrives at Courfeyrac’s home, for the first time he doesn’t hesitate. He walks up and knocks, and takes a breath to settle himself. The door opens, and Courfeyrac is there. Combeferre loses his breath for a moment. 

“It’s you.” Courfeyrac is taken aback. 

“I know you said it was a mistake, and I know you told me not to come back. Tell me now to go, and I swear this is the last you’ll hear of me,” Combeferre rushes to say. “But I hope you will give me a chance to speak, and to apologize.” 

Courfeyrac stares at him, and at the flowers he’s brought, drooping a little by now. He looks back at Combeferre, and holds the door open a little wider. 

Combeferre realizes he has been holding his breath, and lets it all out at once. “Thank you.” 

Once they are inside, Courfeyrac finds a vase for the flowers; hopefully the water will help save them. “So.” He looks at Combeferre, uncertain. 

“I am so, so sorry,” Combeferre says earnestly. “I was a fool. I was the luckiest man alive, to have the opportunity to be with you, and I squandered it, I took you for granted. I love you, Courfeyrac. And I understand completely if you no longer feel the same, or if you cannot trust me; I treated you horribly. I only - I find I cannot give up on us so easily. We had something good, something truly, wonderfully good, and I miss you.” 

Courfeyrac says nothing as Combeferre speaks, and then says nothing for some minutes afterward. Combeferre endures the silence, hands perfectly still in his lap. Even he is near twitching by the time Courfeyrac speaks. 

“And Cosette?” he asks. 

“Married to her Marius in two weeks,” Combeferre says. “I would like it very much if you attended the wedding with me. We shall be hosting a ball afterwards, at Cosette’s request.” 

“So now that her future is certain, you can take the time to think of your own?” Courfeyrac asks, wry. 

“Yes,” Combeferre admits. He thinks that he tried once, earlier, when her future was less certain, but he has to admit he didn’t try as hard as he ought. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t seem offended by that, though; he just nods. “I know you will always have responsibilities; that you will always have to worry about what people think and say.” 

“Cosette will be married already; Enjolras, I think, will swear off love entirely after his misadventure - and regardless, he will stir up controversy wherever he can; and I care absolutely none for what anyone thinks of me.” 

“Then why couldn’t you make me that promise?” Courfeyrac demands. “I didn’t say we had to be married the next week; I only asked you to be able to promise that a day would come that you would put me first.” 

“I was frightened,” Combeferre admits. “This was my first season, and I thought myself prepared. I learned how woefully unprepared I was so quickly, and I realized that the pressures came down on me harder than I expected. I thought, for a moment, that I wouldn’t be able to make any kind of promise, that the future wasn’t as straightforward as I’d expected. I buckled under the pressure,” Combeferre admits, “And I didn’t want to make you a promise I couldn’t keep.” 

“And now?”

“Now I know I can. I’ve made it through this Season; there has been drama with a duke and a baron and the whole of society has had their eyes on me and mine. One more drama for the ton to gossip over is - well, not nothing. I cannot promise it will be easy for either of us,” Combeferre admits. “But I do think it will be worth it, and this time, I really am sure I can make and keep that promise.” 

Courfeyrac sighs softly. He looks tired. “You cannot change your mind again, Combeferre. My heart cannot take it.” 

“I will not,” he promises. 

“You are certain Cosette’s wedding is the time and place for it?” Courfeyrac asks. 

“I am. She wants to meet you. Enjolras as well.”

Courfeyrac nods slowly. “Very well. Is there a dress code, for a wedding in polite society?” he asks. 

“The wedding is a small, private affair. The ball afterwards, Cosette has declared the theme to be blue, and so everyone must have something blue on them,” Combeferre tells him. 

“Blue it is, then,” Courfeyrac agrees. “Oh, and you must tell me about this drama with a duke; I have missed a great deal, it seems.” 

And so Combeferre begins to tell the long, excruciating tale. 

The wedding is indeed a small, private affair, as most weddings are. The marriage contracts are signed. Grantaire and Enjolras stand off to one side together, the baron watching them with a keen look in his eye. Combeferre stands by the door, Courfeyrac at his side. The priest announces Cosette and Marius married, and they exchange a chaste kiss. And with that, they all pile into carriages to go from the church to the Fauchelevant estate, to prepare for the ball. 

Marius and Cosette share a carriage of their own, so Cosette doesn’t have the chance to meet Courfeyrac yet, but Enjolras finally gets to come face to face with his brother’s lover. 

“So, you are the famous Courfeyrac,” he says, observing him carefully. 

“It would seem so,” Courfeyrac agrees. “And you are the rather infamous Enjolras.” 

“I am.” Enjolras is curious about this man his brother clearly loves - enough to bring him to the wedding and the ball, no less. “I am glad my brother finally found his nerve,” Enjolras adds. “I hope you made him grovel.” 

Courfeyrac laughs. He likes Enjolras, he decides on the spot. “He still has some groveling to do to make it up to me,” he assures Enjolras. 

The ball begins. Enjolras finds Grantaire; this is their last day, it is done, Cosette is married. Grantaire will leave London, and Enjolras.. Enjolras will be left with a broken heart, because he was stupid enough to fall in love in the first place, after all of his assertions that he would not. They share a dance. Grantaire, too, seems almost melancholy. This surprises Enjolras -- he had expected Grantaire to be pleased to be finally done with him, seeing as Grantaire has hardly been able to speak to him. Enjolras doesn’t drink often, but he lets Grantaire pour him a glass of champagne. They dance again, and there is something desperate to it. They share a glass of champagne in silence again outside, seeking some air. Enjolras seeks something to say, anything. He finishes his second glass, and then, later in the night, a third. By now Enjolras is feeling the effects - just a little, enough to take the edge off of what he is feeling. 

Enjolras finds himself alone with Grantaire on a balcony. “I love you,” he says suddenly, pleading. “I have, I did, I do. I do not know what I will do when you are gone.” 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, and he is softer than he has been with Enjolras since their fight. 

“Do not say anything,” Enjolras says. “Please.” He is standing close; too close. He leans in, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing this could ruin him. He doesn’t care. 

His lips reach Grantaire’s own. He has never kissed anyone before; he thinks he likes it, but before he can really decide, Grantaire pushes him away. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Grantaire says. 

Mortified, Enjolras turns bright red. Of course it’s not - scandal aside, Grantaire hates him. What had he been thinking? 

“I am so sorry,” he stammers, and then he turns and flees, locking himself in his bedroom for the rest of the night. 

Everyone is thoroughly distracted from any drama between Enjolras and his fiance, though. Combeferre Fauchelevant is hosting a society ball with a man on his arm - and not a society man, no, an actor. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, though, could not care less. They dance all night, pausing only to let each of them dance with Cosette once. “You are a beautiful bride,” Courfeyrac compliments her. 

“Thank you, sir,” she smiles. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the man who has so enchanted my brother.” 

“And it is a pleasure to meet the woman he treasures so,” Courfeyrac counters. 

“He deserves a swift kick up the pants for letting you go over me,” Cosette says. 

“Perhaps,” Courfeyrac agrees. “But.. if I could not understand his reasons, and the pressures he was under, and if he hadn’t promised to do better, I would not be here now.” 

“He’s a good man, behind all of his - well, you know,” Cosette says. “If he says he will do better, he will do all he can to live up to it.” 

“I know,” Courfeyrac promises. “He has proven it already, bringing me here, tonight.” 

“Yes - no taking it back now,” Cosette agrees. 

“You do not mind, that it is at your wedding?” Courfeyrac asks. 

“Oh, not at all,” Cosette promises. “It will at least take some attention off of my brother, to have two other things for the ton to gossip about, besides my brother ending his engagement with Grantaire.” 

“You are a close-knit family,” Courfeyrac observes. 

“We are,” Cosette agrees. 

“I hope you will let me become a part of it.” 

“I do hope you will,” she says with a grin. “Or my brother shall receive my kick up his backside.” 

Courfeyrac likes Cosette, as well. What an enchanting family. He lets the whispers slide off of him - he knows this will be worth it. 

The night draws to a close, and Cosette and Marius are the last to leave, in their own carriage. They will retreat to a country estate in the Pontmercy name for their honeymoon.

“Have you seen Enjolras?” Cosette frets. 

“Not in some time,” Combeferre frowns. 

“I will not leave without seeing him once more. Why would he not come to see me off?” she asks. She knows there must be a reason - Enjolras wouldn’t just let her go without a goodbye. 

“I am here.” Enjolras has clearly had a rough night; he looks as if he has been crying. 

Cosette does not ask; she assumes she knows, and she wraps him tight in a hug. “I am so sorry to have to leave you now,” she says softly. 

Enjolras hugs her tight. “I shall get by,” he assures her. “Please, do not worry about me. Enjoy your honeymoon.” 

She nods tearfully, and squeezes him just a little tighter before letting go to hug Combeferre. “Do not get married without me,” she tells Combeferre sternly, and he nods. 

“I promise. Now, go on.” He kisses her cheek and offers his hand to help her into the carriage. 

They watch the carriage drive away in the night. 


	12. Working title: wedding 2 electric boogaloo

“I would like a private word with Mr. Enjolras, if I may,” Grantaire says, coming face to face with Combeferre, who looks none too impressed. Grantaire thinks that’s unfair - what was he supposed to do, kiss Enjolras back, risk being seen, risk ruining him? Worse yet, risk Enjolras’ regret later? Surely Combeferre should be pleased that Grantaire had chosen to hold back. 

“I don’t believe Enjolras is having visitors today, your grace,” Combeferre replies. 

“Will you ask him?” Grantaire asks. 

“Fine. Wait here.” Combeferre disappears, and Grantaire is left waiting. 

He wonders if Enjolras really does regret what happened between them; he wonders if the confession was a true one, and he wonders what that really means. He ought to be on his way from London now; in fact, he is packed, his carriage awaiting him outside, but he had been unable to leave without attempting to see Enjolras one last time - he needs to know what Enjolras had meant at the ball. 

It is some minutes later before Combeferre returns - alone. “Enjolras is not feeling well, and cannot see you,” he says firmly. 

That is all the confirmation Grantaire needs; he nods once. “Pass on my regards, then. I hope he is in better health soon.” He pauses. “Make up whatever story suits you; let the failed arrangement fall squarely on my own shoulders,” he advises. “I have withstood worse scandals, and can weather one more.” 

Combeferre nods. “That is gracious indeed,” he says. “We are private people; I will simply say that the engagement has ended, and that it is no one’s business why.” 

“People will likely assume it is I who got cold feet, regardless,” Grantaire agrees. “I am not known for settling down.” 

“As you say,” Combeferre agrees lightly. 

“Well.” Grantaire pauses, awkward. “Goodbye, then.” 

And he returns to his carriage, and he lets it carry him well away from London, from Enjolras, from society. Perhaps a vacation in the New World will do him good. 

  
  


By the end of the day, society is ablaze with gossip. Duke Grantaire Grafton has departed from London, called off his engagement, and with such little notice. By the end of the week, gossip has not calmed. Enjolras receives word that Grantaire is said to have left the country as a whole, visiting America, they say. Enjolras huffs, and slams the door in Combeferre’s face when he comes to see how Enjolras is doing. Courfeyrac has no better luck. Enjolras is in a terrible mood, and has been since the ball. 

“He is missing Cosette, certainly,” Combeferre says to Courfeyrac, the pair of them holed up in the library together. “But I think - well, I do not know what happened between them at the ball, and their relationship had been just awful since - well, since Grantaire learned the truth, or some version of it. But something must have happened.” 

“Hm,” Courfeyrac considers it. “Whatever it was, it seems they are unlikely to fix things now. The duke has fled all the way across an ocean, as I understand it.” 

“Yes,” Combeferre agrees, frowning. “I only hope Enjolras recovers soon - this sort of heartbreak is not meant for him.” 

“I feel quite badly for him,” Courfeyrac nods. “But from what you have said, I think he shall be back to his usual self soon enough - or, not his usual self, I do not believe anyone is ever quite the same after his first heartbreak - but he will surely stop sulking, at least, quite soon.” 

“I certainly hope so - my siblings will make me grey before I am thirty,” Combeferre mourns. 

"Ah, you will wear it well," Courfeyrac teases. "It shall make you quite the distinguished gentleman." He ruffles Combeferre's hair, and succeeds in his goal to make Combeferre smile, at least. 

The unending gossip does not help, but the ton will move on to new drama as it arises - and it arises soon enough. It is the final ball of the London Season, and it is to be a grand affair. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both have new jackets fitted for the occasion, and Courfeyrac being seen with Combeferre out and about in town is enough to raise chatter again. 

Enjolras will not attend the ball, and Combeferre makes no attempt to press the issue. He has plans that do not include babysitting his younger brother, as uncharitable as that may be. Besides, he doesn’t yet want to expose Enjolras to the prodding eyes and sharp tongues of society. He has been coming out of his room more often, and has been devouring books with alacrity. He has been throwing himself into work, writing essays and letters and all sorts of things. He writes under a pseudonym, for now, taking advantage of the ton’s propensity for gossip and their love of a mystery, and he is beginning to gain some notoriety. It only fuels him further. Combeferre is glad for him - despite his heartbreak, Enjolras is finally beginning to make real progress in his goals. 

The ball arrives, too soon and not soon enough all at once. Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac in the carriage - he suspects that Courfeyrac is more nervous than he lets on. Much of society will not look kindly on him here. They will not think kindly of either of them, of course, but Courfeyrac is likely to bear the more direct brunt of it. He is not one of them. 

“I do not mind, love,” Courfeyrac tries to soothe Combeferre’s worries. “Let them talk; I am an actor. All attention is good attention.” 

“You are an actor,” Combeferre agrees, “But you need not act with me. It is understandable that their comments might hurt you.” 

“Perhaps. But it is nothing in the face of us,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “If you are certain that this is what you want -”

“-I am,” Combeferre interrupts. 

“Yes, yes. But if you are certain, then so am I,” Courfeyrac assures him. “Besides, this is my second ball now. I am not green anymore.” 

“Perhaps,” Combeferre says, and he lets the matter rest as they disembark the carriage and head for the doors. 

They dance. They dance more than is appropriate, and people are audacious enough to point and whisper openly. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, though, they shield each other as much as they can, and they dance every dance with each other. They cannot dance forever, though. Out of breath and in need of a break, they retreat to the garden, walking arm in arm through the roses. 

“Do you know,” Courfeyrac muses, “I truly don’t mind the whispering. It is lovely, to dance with you. And to do it openly, that makes it all the better.” 

“I believe I stepped on your toes at least twice,” Combeferre points out.

“That is  _ not  _ the point, and you know it. I can teach you to dance, but you have to admit you are also enjoying yourself,” Courfeyrac says with a laugh. 

“I am,” Combeferre agrees with a soft smile. He glances about to be sure they are alone, and brushes his lips across Courfeyrac’s cheek, nearly the corner of his lips. 

“Cheeky,” Courfeyrac teases. 

“You have been rubbing off on me,” Combeferre admits. 

“Oh I have,” Courfeyrac says with a lewd wink. 

“Oh, hush,” Combeferre blushes. He pauses, and takes Courfeyrac’s hand. “Courfeyrac,” he says softly. “I love you. More than the sun and the stars.”

“More than your collection of pinned moths?” Courfeyrac teases. 

“I am serious,” Combeferre smiles, fond. “I have wasted so much time, and I don’t wish to waste a moment more. I know what I want, and for once I am taking a leaf from your book and pursuing it. Courfeyrac, I love you, and I want to spend my life with you.” 

“Combeferre, what-?”

“Marry me,” Combeferre says. “We can be married before the summer is out - I know you want a summer wedding.” He goes to one knee, and doesn’t let go of Courfeyrac’s hands. 

Courfeyrac stares at him with wide eyes, like he can’t believe this is happening. In some ways, it’s so soon - a couple of weeks, since Cosette’s wedding, and only a month since they had agreed to try again. But - well, they have been in love for far longer than that, and marriages have been made in far less time. And he loves Combeferre - truly, he does, and he knows in his heart that he wants to marry him. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Combeferre, you absurd -” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Combeferre stands and kisses him. 

  
  


Weddings are typically small, private affairs. This one will still be small, but it has been far from private thus far - it has been the topic of speculation in every corner of London. A respectable society gentleman, marrying an actor, of all sorts - and only a month after his sister marries a baron. Baron Gillenormand has been decrying it to anyone who will listen as a disgrace he does not approve of, but the opinions of the ton seem to slide right off of the happy couple. Society’s newest, most scandalous essayist has written in favour of the union, and in favour of more mixing of the classes, and this only adds to the flurry of gossip on the topic. 

The wedding itself, though, is a small affair followed by the biggest and most scandalous party of the century. Cosette and Marius Pontmercy attend, of course - the engagement had been just long enough to accommodate their return - as well as the rest of the Fauchelevant family, and no others except the priest. Marriage contracts are signed, the marriage is sealed in the eyes of God, and then it is done. Courfeyrac and Combeferre allow themselves a less-than-entirely chaste kiss at the altar, which makes the priest harrumph disapprovingly, but makes Cosette cheer for them. 

And then, of course, the party. It is a mingling of classes as has not been done before; Courfeyrac’s troupe is there, and some of the servants from the Fauchelevant household attend as guests. Enjolras’ friends from town attend - a tailor named Feuilly, and a boxer named Bahorel - and his friend Jehan Prouvaire, a poet and a member of society himself. It turns out Courfeyrac and Feuilly are already acquainted - Feuilly has done costumes for the theatre - and Courfeyrac has read some of Jehan’s poetry. The party is a delight, but Combeferre and Courfyerac do not last the whole night. They retreat, after some time, and a few drinks, to their bedroom.

“I love you, husband,” Courfeyrac murmurs, leaving a smattering of kisses across Combeferre’s face. 

“And I, you.” Combeferre places a hand on Courfeyrac’s cheek and pulls him in for a proper kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, R is an idiot! But at least Courferre are cute


	13. Working title: took them long enough jfc

The year passes in fits and bursts. Enjolras’ career as an essayist takes off with aplomb. He keeps the pseudonym, in the end; it suits him, to be able to write so freely, and now his alter ego is taken seriously, in a way that he still is not, for his age and his status. There is some speculation as to whether or not Combeferre is the mystery author, which makes both Enjolras and his brother laugh. 

Cosette has her first child at the end of May - a healthy baby boy who Enjolras loves to coo over when he visits. He turns out to be surprisingly good with children; the baby loves him best, and Enjolras will proudly announce the fact to anyone who will listen. He bounces little Thomas on his hip, and carries him everywhere, and whispers about revolution in soothing tones to him when he cries. 

Cosette herself is glowing with happiness; she is a wonderful mother, and Marius is a doting husband and father. They make a picture-perfect family, and Cosette could not have dreamed of better for herself and her family. 

Of course, the Season once again descends upon London. Cosette and Marius have a newborn, and will not be attending very much, but Enjolras has no such excuse, and nor do Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Though talk has died down somewhat about their scandalous marriage, and they are no longer truly an oddity about town - most people in London have become quite accustomed to seeing them together by now - most of the ton doesn’t spend the full year in London, and will likely still see them as strange. 

Still, the first ball of the season approaches, and all of them decide to make an appearance - even Cosette and Marius. Baby Thomas is left with a nanny for the evening, and all of them pile into two carriages to go to the ball. Enjolras is less sour this time around - he doesn’t plan to dance, but he does hope to make some conversation. Marius and Cosette are eager to see some of their friends again, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are looking forward to the dancing. It is sure to be a lovely evening. 

  
  


Combeferre and Courfeyrac are not the hottest scandal, even at the beginning of the Season. Scandal is perhaps the wrong word - they are not the main source of gossip. That honour goes to Lord Grantaire Grafton, whom no one expected to see return to London for the season, but who is nonetheless present, after a successful run of artwork in America, where he garnered some acclaim for his painting. 

“Are you alright?” Cosette appears at Enjolras’ side, and tracks his gaze to Grantaire himself. 

“I am,” Enjolras says, and finds that he means it. Time and distance have done him good, and he is no longer a heartbroken boy. He hasn’t thought of Grantaire in some time, distracted as he has been with his writing, and with his nephew. 

“Will you speak with him?” Cosette asks. 

“No,” Enjolras shakes his head firmly. “The gossip mills have enough to busy themselves with, without me seeking out my ex-fiance.” 

Enjolras is true to his word - he avoids Grantaire expertly, not only at that first ball, but at the next two. He becomes very good at vanishing in a crowd at just the right moment. 

“We shouldn’t meddle,” Cosette says over tea with Courfeyrac. 

“We absolutely should not,” Courfeyrac agrees, but he doesn’t look like his heart is in it. 

“Enjolras was devastated by the whole thing, last year; we shouldn’t try to do anything.” 

“Of course not - it would be terribly insensitive,” Courfeyrac agrees once more. 

“However,” Cosette carries on. “Marius is friends with Grantaire, and he says Grantaire really loved Enjolras. He  _ claims _ that Grantaire told him that they kissed at your wedding ball, and that Grantaire didn’t want to take advantage when Enjolras had had some drinks, and so he came back the next day - Courfeyrac, if all of this was a misunderstanding, we can’t just do nothing.” 

Courfeyrac looks absolutely delighted. “It would be irresponsible not to at least try to have them clear the air, wouldn’t it?”

“You are correct, of course,” Cosette agrees. 

  
  


The Pontmercy family are holding a ball. It will be their first, as a family, and it is the talk of the ton. The invitation is open; the theme is a masquerade. It is a scandalous thing, but the Duke is attending, and so anyone who would have avoided the event on principle feels required to appear where the duke does. 

“I said I wasn’t going to go to balls this year,” Enjolras complains as Cosette raids his closet for an appropriate costume. 

“Yes, but this is my first, and you will be there as my brother to support me, won’t you?” she asks with those doe eyes of hers. 

Enjolras groans. “I suppose I must,” he agrees half-heartedly. “Will Grantaire - will the duke be there?”

“I imagine he might,” Cosette says lightly. “He is a close friend of Marius, after all.” 

“Hm.” Enjolras looks at his hands. 

Cosette dresses him in white, and manages to produce enough feathers to put together an admittedly stunning set of wings. A white mask of lace and a golden circlet complete the look, and Enjolras is angelic. “You are stunning,” she tells him, satisfied. 

“Will you and Marius dress up?” Enjolras asks, fidgeting with his hem. 

“Of course,” Cosette says. “As each other! Marius shall wear one of my dresses, and I one of his suits, and I am sure we shall have at least someone fooled.” 

Enjolras laughs. “Do you think so? Marius will trip on his hem at least once, and give you both away instantly.” 

“He is clumsier than I am,” Cosette allows. “Still, it will be an entertaining little game.” 

The ball approaches all too quickly - and Enjolras realizes that he will have a much harder time evading Grantaire with everyone dressed to conceal. He keeps to the edges of the event, watching and waiting, and he sees Grantaire everywhere. Every green coat, every too-loud laugh, every mess of dark curly hair. Any of them could be Grantaire, or none of them. Cosette draws him into a dance, which he accepts. Courfeyrac cuts in at the next, and when the dance ends, he finds Courfeyrac disappears entirely too quickly, leaving him standing before a man in a black cloak and mask, lined in red. He looks the stereotype of the highway robber, and for a moment, Enjolras wonders if this is Grantaire - but he has seen so many he thinks could be Grantaire that he assumes he is, once again, mistaken. 

“What angel is this that blesses my vision?” the man asks. 

Enjolras’ first inclination is to roll his eyes and walk away, but something keeps him there. “Is not the purpose to be anonymous, sir?”

“Ah, but I need something to call you, do I not?”

“Dance with me, and I shall consider telling you,” Enjolras says on an impulse. 

He can’t make out the man’s expression, but he holds out a hand, and Enjolras takes it just as the next song begins. 

“So, what must I do to earn your name?” the man asks as they pass one another. 

“You do not intend to dazzle me with your smalltalk?” Enjolras replies. 

“Is it small talk you wish to hear? I can perform with the best. Shall I ask your thoughts on the recent dry spell?”

“It has been dry indeed,” Enjolras laughs. They move in a slow circle, and change partners temporarily. 

“Now that we are done, perhaps I shall comment upon our hosts, and their excellent little ruse.”

“Ah, so you have caught on, then,” Enjolras comments. 

“Mr Marius Pontmercy is nowhere near as graceful as his wife,” the man says. 

“No - Marius is many things, but not graceful.” 

“Ah, so you are someone on first name terms with our host.” 

“Ah.” Enjolras is glad his mask hides his blush. “It seems I have slipped. Now it would be only fair to give me a hint, too.” 

“I have intrigued you, then.” 

“It is the nature of this sort of thing, to create intrigue.” 

The dance is nearing its end. They make the final figure, and then retreat to the edge. They chat for a while - easy banter, nothing more. It’s.. nice. Enjolras isn’t ready to consider anything like courting, not after last year’s fiasco, but perhaps he can make a new acquaintance, at least. 

“Would you walk with me?” the masked man asks. 

Enjolras takes his arm, and they walk into the garden. “I have enjoyed your company,” Enjolras says, to break the silence. 

“Yes,” the other man says. “I hadn’t expected… I had quite forgotten, I think.” 

“Forgotten?” Enjolras recalls his first thought that this could be Grantaire, and feels his pulse race. 

“You truly do not recognize me?”

“I have seen many men who could be -” Enjolras starts. “But you are Grantaire, aren’t you?”

Grantaire removes his mask, and Enjolras’ heart nearly stops. “You have been avoiding me all season,” Grantaire accuses. 

“Yes,” Enjolras admits. 

“Will you run from me again?” he asks. 

“You rejected me,” Enjolras says. “You -” 

“I didn’t want to risk the harm to your reputation, were we caught. I didn’t want you to regret what was done with alcohol interfering,” Grantaire says. “You refused to see me.” 

“I didn’t want to be let down gently,” Enjolras admits. “I didn’t want to discuss the story of our ended engagement, I couldn’t face you. I was humiliated.” 

“I am sorry,” Grantaire says. “I - we have much to discuss, I think.” 

And so it comes out. Grantaire tells Enjolras about the conversation he overheard; Enjolras tells him if he’d only stayed a little longer, he’d have heard Enjolras confess to falling for him genuinely. Grantaire tells Enjolras about his impressions of the ball, and Enjolras says he thought he was being rejected; that he was too embarrassed to see Grantaire afterwards. 

The hardest part, though, is talking about that one big fight in the theatre. 

“You really hurt me,” Enjolras says softly. “I understand that you were upset, but.. You said awful things to me, Grantaire.” 

“I know,” he admits. “God, I’ve had a year to reflect, and I - I cannot begin to imagine, how you were able to come to me after all of that, and still speak to me. I was horrible.”

Enjolras nods. “You broke my heart,” he says plainly. 

“I am sorry. Truly. I can swear it will not happen again - I have been working on better outlets for my temper,” he says. “I am attempting to be better.” 

“Thank you.” It feels good, to hear it. “I am sorry, too. I should have been upfront with you from the beginning, and not attempted any subterfuge. It was cruel, and you were right to be upset and angry.” 

Grantaire nods as well. “We have made an entire mess of things, haven’t we?”

“We have,” Enjolras admits. 

“Tonight has been good. In between the awful, we were good, weren’t we?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says softly. “I think we were. Tonight has reminded me - I had pushed it from my mind.” 

“Would you try again?” Grantaire asks. “Could we?”

Enjolras considers it. “Perhaps,” he agrees. “Slowly, and honestly, this time.” 

“Slowly and honestly,” Grantaire agrees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! we've reached the end! thanks to everyone who stuck by for the whole thing <3


End file.
